


Unfinished Business

by Ghostiekitty



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Endeavour Morse Needs a Hug, Endeavour Morse Whump, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Maybe Don't Read Before Bed, OR TOTALLY DO, Peter Jakes Didn't Leave Oxford, Pretty Dang Dark, SONstable, Suicide, Supernatural Elements, ThursDAD, post-season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:08:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 53,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21914197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostiekitty/pseuds/Ghostiekitty
Summary: After suffering a traumatic incident stemming from an unsolved disappearance, Morse has a series of frightening encounters that will make him question his belief in the Spirit World.
Comments: 344
Kudos: 118





	1. Don't You Forget About Me

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING FOR SUICIDE IN CHAPTER ONE.
> 
> I wanted to have something up for Spooky Whumptober, but decided I'd go for attempting to resurrect the Victorian tradition of telling ghost stories on (or around) Christmas Eve. 
> 
> This one will be darker and whumpier than my other stories, and maybe even genuinely frightening? A gal can dream. My housemates are gone for three weeks, so it's just me alone in a 120-year old Gold Rush-era building in rural Alaska that everyone claims is haunted. SO THAT'S NEAT. I'll provide regular updates so long as I don't scare the crap out of myself writing this.
> 
> Erm, enjoy! And Happy Solstice!
> 
> Also, if anyone knows what rank Jim Strange was promoted to after Series/Season 6, help a sister out. Would it have been to Inspector?

_Now I know what a ghost is._

_Unfinished business, that's what._

\- Salman Rushdie, _The Satanic Verses_

Today was little Aidan Brewer's fourth birthday.

 _Would have been his fourth birthday_ , DS Endeavour Morse reminded himself, pausing momentarily as he poured a fresh cup of tea from the tarnished, industrial steel kettle that had also made the move from the old Cowley building.

_Would have been._

Birthdays were odd like that: both anticipated and feared, their calendar blocks routinely filled in and circled with gravitas, or crossed out in disgust, either celebrated with abandon, or neglected with disdain. The honoree could be living, or even deceased. Like funerals, birthday celebrations were also for those still on this earth to partake in them.

Aidan had initially disappeared on the day of his third such celebration, to be marked with a frosted, candle-lit cake and a stuffed toy.

Instead, the child had vanished without so much as a wisp of his fine, straw-coloured hair left behind.

His father, David, with a documented background containing far too many violent outbursts for as young as he was, had been considered a suspect at one time. Aidan's mother had been questioned, as well, having had abandoned both husband and son for a new, childless suitor with whom to continue her carefree lifestyle shortly after Aidan's birth.

She had not wanted either of them, and subsequently he no longer wanted her. Aidan was the focus of David's new life, and he was happier for it. Until the occurrence of Aidan's third birthday and his disappearance, wherein David Brewer became a dessicated husk of his former self, brittle and crumbling.

And that was how he appeared the day he walked into the Thames Valley Police Station, his six-foot-one frame hunched inwards, eyes red and swollen, on the anniversary of his son's disappearance.

Only a fool would think the child to still be alive, and Endeavour was certainly no fool.

Morse watched David Brewer as he shambled through the station's lobby, bundled up tightly in an oversize coat against the frigid outside air. He stopped intermittently, searching, no doubt, for a familiar face. When he didn't find it immediately, drawing confused and concerned gazes from the other officers in the department, Morse knew the face which he sought could only be his own. He intervened before someone thought to detain the still-grieving father.

"Mr. Brewer?" Morse queried quietly, not wanting to startle the man as he stepped from the breakroom he'd exited from, fresh tea in hand.

David Brewer paused where he stood, his back facing Morse. When he finally turned around, Morse found himself looking into the face of someone who had aged five years in the past one. It was clear he was used to keeping up appearances while in public, going through the motions as would an automaton. The eyes never lied, however, and often spoke to the true state of a person's mental distress. Before him, Morse concluded, was a man barely tethered to the world of the living, though he was all of twenty-four years old.

Endeavour hoped to never intimately know such soul-crushing loss as his.

The detective sergeant swallowed visibly, suddenly unsure what else to say to this spectre of a man. He was never very good at the act of comforting others, and he doubted there were even words in existence that could heal Brewer's wounds.

Brewer blinked slowly, staring at Morse for an inordinate amount of time. It was a bit unnerving, truth be told. Finally, he spoke.

"Detective Morse...you remembered."

_However could he forget one of the worst failures of his career?_

"Of, course, Mr. Brewer," he reassured, his voice growing perceptibly softer, "I'd never forget you."

Brewer nodded sharply, just once. 

It was then that Jim Strange turned the corner, nodding at his colleague in greeting as he passed the pair. Morse could identify the very moment recognition set in for the other man, his cadence faltering as the distraught father's visage triggered his memory of the long, grueling hours spent searching for the little tow-headed toddler.

"Can I...have a word with you, Detective Morse? I just...I need some closure..."

Strange had paused in his steps as Brewer spoke again, his gaze alighting on Morse's face as he awaited any cue that the situation couldn't be handled. His memory of David Brewer had been one of barely contained fury, a distraught rage so potent that it simmered below the surface of a slowly cracking facade, latent until it would eventually burn him alive from within. The last year, however, had changed him irrevocably. 

Jim wondered now if the man even felt any emotion at all.

Morse caught his eye and nodded imperceptibly to indicate all was well before addressing Mr. Brewer. His willingness to admit to accepting a sense of closure was a step forward, in Morse's book, and was eager to facilitate his journey. "Of course. Why don't you come with me, and I'll find us an empty interrogation room we can speak privately in?"

Jim watched as Morse laid a hand on Brewer's shoulder as he gently guided the other man down the hallway before continuing about his business.

With his recent promotion, he didn't want to overstep his bounds as a supervisor, but also wanted to lend support where needed.

_Besides_ , he mused to himself, _it wasn't anything that Morse couldn't handle on his own._

* * *

Once inside the darkened room, Morse flipped on the light switch, illuminating the table and set of chairs within, casting them in a subtle, artificial yellow glow. He set his own cup of tea down, motioning David towards the other chair. "Can I get you anything, Mr. Brewer? Tea, coffee--?"

"No," Brewer growled abruptly, before softening his tone with, "but, thank you for asking." 

Endeavour grasped the back of his own metal chair, lifting it up and swinging it around to be nearer to Brewer, positioning it so that the dynamic between them was less like an interrogation, and more as though a casual conversation. One, he'd have to admit to himself, he didn't want to have.

"Alright, then. Mr. Brewer, what brings you here today?" Endeavour queried gently, taking a precursory sip of his tea.

David Brewer looked back towards him with all the disgust one usually reserved for a bin of rotting garbage on a stifflingly hot summer's day. Morse was instantly put on edge.

"Why in the hell do you _suppose_ I'm here, _Detective_ Morse, if that's even what you do? Or, are you a _detective_ in name only?" Brewer spat viciously.

Morse's cheeks flushed scarlet with shame, and he fought to contain the slight tremble of his hand as he set his cup down, hoping to disguise being completely caught off-guard. The conversation was careening downhill, and fast.

Endeavour cleared his throat, gaze settled unwavering on Brewer's own. "I am what my title professes, Mr. Brewer, and I'm sorry, that today, of all days, I've no further news of our investigation--"

" _Investigation_ ," Brewer scoffed, "That's laughable. You mean the _four days_ you and your useless lot poked around in the snow?" 

Morse rather thought that two weeks of pedestrian survey through the woods and fields across Oxford in below-freezing temperatures, the sky _hemorrhaging_ snow, was quite a bit more than that, but he held his tongue. 

"No, I'm asking you," Brewer demanded as he leaned forward, finger jabbing angrily at the table. " _Was that your investigation?_ "

Morse's jaw clenched tightly, swallowing hard as he fought to find any words which could de-escalate the conversation. Perhaps Strange's presence wouldn't have been such a terrible idea..."We've extensively interviewed a number of possible suspects over the last year, of which you are aware--"

Again, Brewer laughed aloud, his teeth gritted in a grimace. "Oh, I'm _well aware_. I was _one of them_ , you _bloody idiot_ \--"

Morse soldiered on, adamant about not letting Brewer's inconsolable grief be taken out solely on his person. "You _were_ one of them, and for good reason. The Thames Valley Police Department sincerely regrets--"

" _NO_. Try again."

Morse closed his eyes briefly, not entirely certain on how to proceed with what is clearly amounting to a dead end conversation.

"Mr. Brewer, your son's case is still open, which should be indication enough that we haven't given up yet. That _I_ haven't given up on Aidan yet." What Morse wouldn't admit aloud was the nature of their investigation, that of a potential body recovery, and not a reunion of father and son, hale and hearty. He held Brewer's gaze as he said this, daring him to interrupt him once more. When he didn't, Morse continued. "I need you to understand that we are following all possible leads, even to this very day. Even one year later. I promise you--"

"Oh! A _promise?_ From you? _Detective_ Morse, let me tell you how _very_ reassuring this conversation has been. _Well worth my time_. Thank you."

It was startlingly apparent that the only reason David Brewer had sought him out that day was to harass him for being an incredible failure. Endeavour had no desire to sit and be harangued further by this rightfully inconsolable man. Nothing would be solved by furthering the dialogue they had commenced. Morse nodded in finality and stood up abruptly, running a fingernail across his eyebrow in exasperation. "Right. I really must attend to my caseload, Mr. Brewer, and I'm sorry that you didn't find the answers you were looking for in your time of grief. If you have any additional concerns or comments, I'll ask that my supervisor sit in my stead, as I seem to be unable to communicate to you any relevant or sufficient answers." Morse knew he was being flippant, but he wanted nothing more than to remove himself from this pointless conversation. "If there are any further developments, I'll make certain you are the first to be notified."

Mr. Brewer stood, as well, and watched as Morse moved towards the door with haste. 

Without truly thinking, the detective let slip a sincere, "I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Brewer." 

Before Morse's hand could alight on the door latch, he heard David's voice once more.

"Your tea, Mr. Morse."

The detective paused, and half-considered leaving it there. He could always grab it later...

In retrospect, he should have done just that, and avoided what would become one of the most harrowing experiences of his life.

Instead, Morse turned, reaching out to grasp the cup's handle, the brew inside long grown cold. In doing so, he missed the way Brewer's fingers twitched at his sides before tightly curling into fists.

A fiercely-driven right hook caught Morse in complete and utter surprise, a yelp of shock and pain escaping his lips as Brewer's fist connected with his left eye. A shattering of ceramic registered dimly as the tea cup exploded into shards on the floor, as his own vision pulsed with a glittering blackness. 

Morse caught himself on the chair as the momentum spun him 'round, only to be yanked upwards by Brewer, and shoved backwards, striking the opposing wall spine-first. A sharp cry was silenced as another fist repeated the trajectory of the first, and Endeavour's head snapped to the side. Brewer's other arm held him upright, fingers twisting in the lapels of his blue jacket.

" _S-stop!_ " Morse cried out in a panic, slowly sliding down the wall as David held onto him, sinking to his own knees as the detective came to rest on the floor. "David, _stop--!_ "

Brewer jerked him forward before brutally slamming him back against the interrogation room wall once more, and a soft moan escaped Morse as his skull glanced off the concrete.

"You're _sorry for my loss_ , are you?" Brewer's eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks stained with tears. "You're _sorry!?_ You've given up on him, haven't you?"

Another fist met its mark with devastating accuracy. Endeavour slumped forward as far as his attacker's hold allowed, tears intermingling with the fresh blood that trickled from the torn skin around his left eye. "I...I didn't mean it...like that--" he explained softly, lifting his head up with a tremendous effort. It hurt terribly, and he could feel the blood slowly coursing down to tickle at his collarbone. Brewer was despondent beyond words, unleashing a terrible wail as he drew his arm back once more, and struck Morse in the face a fourth time. Endeavour whimpered aloud with the impact, vaguely aware of the thunderous clatter of footsteps traversing the linoleum tiles outside of the interrogation room. 

Brewer heard it, too, and Morse detected the muffled sound of a metallic coat zipper over the pounding in his splitting skull.

"I _trusted_ you!" Brewer hissed. With a loud, reverberating bang, the door flew open on its hinges, and several of Morse's peers entered the room simultaneously. It was at that moment did the injured young man first feel the cold, unforgiving barrel of a pistol digging into his forehead, moments before the other officers even saw it. 

" _GUN!_ " one shouted in a panic, " _He's got a gun!_ " Morse dully registered this was meant to alert the other officers of the inherent danger, but he couldn't help but think it was all a bit _too loud_ , it was _too much_ for his throbbing skull. Brewer drove the pistol barrel harder against his flesh, presumably as a show to those behind him, and Morse squeezed his eyes shut, teeth clenched as he drew sharp breaths through his nose in an effort to stay calm. 

He felt the hold on his lapels fade away, only to return as a bruising grip upon his jaw. " _Open your eyes!_ " Brewer commanded, "I want you to _look_ at me!" Endeavour's eyes fluttered open wide, his normally piercing blue gaze watery and dulled with pain and panic. "I won't allow Aidan to be forgotten about! _I won't!_ I want my face to be the last you ever see, so you _never forget!_ "

Morse swallowed heavily, struggling to keep his left eye open against the imminent swelling. "If you kill me....that's...that's suicide! You...won't make it out alive, David. You're in a police station. How will that help Aidan? Mr. Brewer...please...think about what you're doing..."

Brewer stared at him, tears continuing to course unheeded down his cheeks. "Yes..." he began, and met Endeavour's gaze with a fey look within his own. "You're right...it's suicide..."

Morse realized just a moment too late what was meant by that, and to his horror, the cold metal of the gun was removed from his forehead. Brewer then opened his mouth wide, placing the loaded barrel within.

" _David, NO--!_ " Morse screamed in a panic, eyes blown wide, brief seconds before Brewer pulled the trigger.

Endeavour's world then hummed with a deafening and all-encompassing silence, shrill and piercing in its totality.

Brewer had been correct: Endeavour would _never_ forget his face.


	2. One Room Into Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse tries to process Brewer's final act, and learns that he isn't alone.
> 
> For better _and_ for worse.

_"Death is no more than passing from one room into another."_ \- Helen Keller 

_Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa--_

__

__

_There was yelling, and lots of it, warbled and distorted._

_Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa--_

_People in the background, running hurriedly here and there, clacking dress shoes muffled on the tile._

_Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa--_

_A familiar face, worried and...odd. No, not odd, strange. Jim Strange._

_Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa--_

_He had crouched beside a body on the floor, bloody, bloody, BLOODY, no longer whole._

_Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa--_

__

__

_The corpse--no, DAVID'S face had shattered, save for one unblinking eyeball, trained on Morse._

_Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa--_

_Morse looked right back at it, unable to turn away._

_Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa--_

_A warbled voice urgently vied for his attention, but Morse could hear nothing aside from his own heartbeat as it thudded wildly in his chest, the too-close crack of a gun report having robbed him of his hearing._

_Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa--_

_A firm hand grasped his shoulder, and Endeavour snapped to attention._

_Thoompa-Thoompa-Thoompa--_

Morse felt a sucking gasp enter his lungs, ears ringing wildly enough to not hear it. He shoved himself backwards against the wall, enough to startle Jim and dislodge his comforting touch. His eyes met those of his colleague, and the overwhelming concern displayed on Jim's kind face was too much to process. Though his limbs shook and faltered, Endeavour scrambled upright in haste, and pushed himself forward into the fray. 

He had to get _out_. 

As he stumbled towards the door, Morse was allowed to flee unhindered from the room as he turned right towards the adjacent men's toilet. He barreled into the door, and dove into the nearest stall. 

There were luckily no witnesses as he became violently ill. 

Afterwards, he shakily pushed himself up into a precarious standing position, and exited the stall for the sink. He noticed a worried Strange as he hovered near the doorway, watching and waiting to assist as needed while Morse cleansed his hands and mouth with water. 

When finished, he raised his head, and caught his reflection in the mirror. 

What Morse saw chilled the blood in his veins. 

Spattered across his face were globs of blood not his own, along with... _matter_. It clung to his hair, his skin, and he quite suddenly could feel the suffocating stickiness of it all. 

The skin around his left eye was split and swollen, already beginning to bruise, the curve of his eye so deep a purple it appeared black in the florescent light. Brewer had hit him, and _hard_. 

So hard that the white of his left eye had filled with blood, leaving his iris to stand out as a bright blue life preserver in a sea of red. 

"... _J-Jim--?_ " Though Morse felt the name of his friend quietly leave his quivering lips, he still could not completely hear it. He detected motion from Jim's corner of the room, and then he was being manoeuvered around to face the taller man. With one hand firmly attached to his upper arm, and the other armed with wet paper towels, Morse read Jim's lips as they mouthed _close your eyes_. He did so, and immediately felt the remnants of Brewer's actions gently scrubbed from his face. 

A squeeze on his upper arm let Morse know when all was done, and he would be ever grateful for it. Gone was the... _corpse_ blood, but still his damaged eye remained. It would take some getting used to, he considered, especially as he realized that the memory of Brewer's open and unseeing eye bothered him far less than his own. 

After Jim finished his own ministrations, Morse felt an arm wrap around his shoulders as Strange gently steered him away from the mirror, and back down the hall. Though he presumed they were walking towards a more quiet, secluded space, his knees buckled all the same when they passed the interrogation room. Jim caught him with ease as they traversed past the busy little room, with no less than eight bodies crammed inside, scribbling and chattering and _clicking_ away. 

Well, _nine_ bodies, really. 

The remaining length of the hallway was filled with onlookers, discussing amongst themselves the singular moment of excitement that would forever taint the new stationhouse. They grew quiet upon seeing a battered Morse being led by a protective Strange down the corridor, and Morse was glad he couldn't quite discern their hushed whispers yet. Upon turning a corner, they nearly collided with a harried Fred Thursday, a worried Reginald Bright in tow, both having just returned from a meeting in town. 

_Morse_...Mr. Bright began, or at least to Morse that's what he had imagined he said. He felt the rumble of Jim's voice answer for him. _He...can't he...et. His hearing...amaged when th....un fired. I'm taking him somewhere quiet--_

" _W-wait_ ," Endeavour spoke, and all eyes were on him. "I...heard that. Mostly." Suddenly, every sound and echo was coming back with clarity, and he felt his breath quicken. "I need...I need to sit down--" 

Fred nodded once, walking back a few paces and opening a non-descript door. Inside was a small office set-up, complete with a couch. Strange deposited him onto its cushions immediately, and clasped his shoulders as he crouched down at eye level. "I'm going to fetch the medic," he enunciated clearly, lest Morse's hearing falter. 

Jim was concerned by Morse's quick acquiescence as he nodded his head slightly in agreement. 

With a nod towards his superiors, Strange hurried from the room, and left a confused Thursday and Bright in his wake. 

Thursday shrugged his coat off quickly, draping it around Morse's trembling shoulders despite the blood spattered on his sergeant's jacket, and took a seat next to him on the sofa. Bright hesitantly lowered himself in the chair adjacent, at a loss for words. Fred mirrored Jim's enunciation, and spoke loudly and clearly. 

"Lad... _what happened?_ We were notified of a shooting--" 

Endeavour winced, and held his pounding skull in his hands. " _Too_ loud, sir. The ringing's mostly stopped." He shifted on the cushion as he tightened the coat around his frame, feeling oddly chilled. He cast his eyes towards both men in succession. 

"Do either of you remember David Brewer? His three year old son, Aidan, went missing last year--" 

Bright chimed in, sadly. "I remember little Aidan. We had every available officer across three jurisdictions looking for him. Was it David...?" 

Morse swallowed thickly. "Yes. He...came to speak to me, sought me out. I watched him from the breakroom, wandering around the station. He looked...so _lost_..." He shook his head mournfully at the memory. "He wanted some indication that we hadn't given up on Aidan, and asked that I help to provide him with some--" Morse paused abruptly, taking a deep breath through his nose before continuing. "Brewer wanted _closure_." 

Fred placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Do you think he had intended on killing himself all along?" 

Morse looked up at the Detective Inspector, his gaze piercing in its directness. "N-no. I believe he came here...to shoot _me_. I was the lead on Aidan's disappearance. Strange saw him, too, but Brewer paid no mind. I was the intended target, before I suggested that killing me in a staffed police station was suicide. And then... " Morse's voice dropped an octave, chin lowered to his chest, "well, then it _was_." 

"Good Heavens, lad," Bright declared, "I'm truly sorry for...for _everything_. Aidan's disappearance was by no means your fault, and the burden should never have been placed on your shoulders alone. For that, I am sorry." 

Morse nodded solemnly, as he took Bright's kind words to heart. "Thank you, Mr. Bright--" A knock on the door shifted their attention as Jim had returned, medic in tow. While he preferred the easy banter with DeBryn, a proper medic he was not, lest Morse forget who was attending to Brewer's remains at that very moment, just down the hall-- 

_He imagined the dulled eye blinking at him._

He straightened as the doctor entered, who then greeted the present company with practiced efficiency. "Misters Bright, Thursday...Morse." 

The aging doctor, Popwell, peered into Morse's eyes, and lifted the nearly swollen lid of the left away from the eye with due care. Morse stilled a hiss of pain as his tender eye socket was probed. 

Fred looked on with worry. "What's happened to his eye, Doctor?" 

Popwell paused, and reached into his bag for a small torch. "Subconjunctival Hemorrhage," he declared with authority, and set about testing the Detective Sergeant's reflexes. "That means he was hit hard enough to burst a blood vessel in his eye." 

Morse felt sick, and Strange certainly looked the part, too. 

"Were you struck anywhere else, Mister Morse?" 

Endeavour shook his head negatively, honestly forgetting all else at that moment. 

As he placed the torch back into his bag, Popwell continued. "It's not permanent, but it'll look worse than it feels. Nothing rest and an ice pack won't cure. And some pain medications, of course." A pad was produced, and two scripts written promptly. "You may also have a slight concussion, so perhaps a visit here and there wouldn't hurt, as well?" This last part was directed at all _but_ Morse. 

Meanwhile, Thursday cleared his throat, making certain he had his bagman's full attention. "Morse, take a few days for yourself, and...you'll need to be evaluated by the staff psychologist before your return to duty. It's protocol in these situations--" 

Morse nodded with a slight smile. "I'm aware, sir. I'll make sure to do so." Ever since the Mason Gull incident, he had been distrustful of psychiatrists and psychologists, in general, but his need to return to work won out over his previously held misgivings. 

It was then agreed that Strange would run Morse home, with the understanding that his colleagues would be dropping in intermittently to check on him. With Thursday's coat returned, Popwell's scripts taken, and Jim having run ahead to grab a set of keys, Morse found himself alone with Mr. Bright. 

"Morse...are you truly alright?" Bright asked quietly, eyes searching his subordinate's gaze for any indication that all was not well. Caught off-guard by the Chief Inspector's sincerity, Endeavour exhaled a shuddering breath. 

"No, Mr. Bright, I'm really not, to be truthful," he admitted, rubbing nervously at the back of his neck. "But, I will be, eventually." 

Reginald nodded firmly with a slight smile, satisfied with his answer. "Thank you for your honesty, Morse. If things ever become...too much, or too dark, don't hesitate to ask for help, hmm?" 

Endeavour smiled back. "I won't, sir. That's a promise." 

* * * 

Not an hour had passed since Strange had brought him home, a fair amount of time spent assuring Jim that he would be fine on his own. After a quick rinse, lest he fall in the shower from standing for too long, he had put on a fresh set of comfortable clothes, making certain to avoid seeing his reflection in the mirror.

He couldn't bear to see his own battered face and bloodied eye staring back. Not yet.

Now, Morse hadn't a clue as to what he should be doing. He couldn't quite focus on a novel, and he certainly wasn't hungry. 

_Brewer's eye blinked once more, before rolling back into its socket..._

Endeavour cleared his throat abruptly, and stood gingerly as he surveyed his record collection. _Surely there was one album or another that would prove a suitable distraction from his thoughts._

A subtler composition was eventually selected, volume turned low as he returned to his favourite chair. Morse soon drifted off momentarily, aching head in hand, the soft music having had its intended effect. 

It wasn't long before the crunching of boots on the crisp snow of his walkway startled him awake. His eyes snapped open, and he glimpsed a passing pair of legs visible through the parted slit in the diaphanous curtains. 

A series of raps in quick succession thundered at his door. 

Morse rubbed at his eyes as he fought off sleep's quiet embrace, groggily calling out, "Just a moment!" Though he wasn't expecting guests, he assumed it was a colleague dropping by for a check-in, as had been threatened good-naturedly. No sooner had Morse risen from the chair did the knocking commence, louder this time, and more urgent. 

He swore to himself as he winced, and hastened to cross the short distance to the door, declaring loudly, " _I'm coming!_ " 

With an exasperated huff, he swung the door wide. 

No one was there. 

Endeavour looked around in confusion, and expected to find a mischievous child hiding and giggling in the adjacent bushes. While no small footsteps were present, he could trace a series of larger impressions that had begun at the road, and ended at his front door. 

He closed the door hesitantly with a soft click, and turned back towards his chair, brow furrowed in contemplation. 

_There had been a pair of legs..._

Banging so loud that it shook his door frame and reverberated through his splitting skull caused Morse to whip his head around in fear, a loud gasp catching high in his throat. The motion quickly knocked him off-kilter, and he had to grab the chair to keep from tumbling to the floor. He closed his eyes briefly, and took deep, measured breaths to calm his pounding heart. Upon opening them, he stole a glance outside through the half-raised window shade. 

From his vantage point, the same legs he had seen earlier were still present, standing at his front door. 

Endeavour stood up slowly, and waited. 

The fourth set of knocks threatened to remove the door from its hinges. 

He moved soundlessly towards his entryway, without so much as a breath leaving his lips. When he reached out for the doorknob in hesitation, he noted that his hand had a slight tremble. With a swift move, he swung the door open. 

As before, not a soul was in sight. 

" _Who's there!?_ " he cried out, voice wavering, and took a few tentative sock-clad steps out of his front door. Standing outside on his walkway in the icy damp, eyes searching for any clues that a person had been present, he called again. 

" _Show yourself!_ " 

None but the twittering snow birds responded. 

He swallowed down the lump in his throat and walked back inside, closing the door and locking it in one fluid motion. 

_What...was happening...?_

As he turned around, a small cry of terror left his lips, eyes blown impossibly wide in disbelief. 

Before him were a series of snowy boot tracks upon the carpet, ending abruptly in the middle of his living room floor. 


	3. No Ghost Was Ever Seen...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse's visitors begin to drop by his house.
> 
> Some were even invited.

" _No ghost was ever seen by two pair of eyes._ " - Thomas Carlyle

_There were boot tracks in his living room..._

A pair of each, four prints in total.

_...only, there weren't any boots present._

Endeavour stared aghast in shock, his back pressed hard against the door, as if to will himself through it. The only sound present was the harsh staccato of his breathing as he attempted to draw a decent breath.

His lungs felt frozen, chest constricted with fear.

Morse finally blinked, as he had refused to turn his gaze from the rapidly melting snow tracks. He glanced around the room with trepidation, and then, he spoke.

 _"H-hullo?_ " He held his breath as he awaited an answer.

There was naught but silence in return.

_He was alone in the room..._

Heavy knocks once more pounded at his front door, the sound reverberating the length of his frame. With a startled shout, Morse spun around as if the wood panel was fire itself. 

This time, the door _spoke._

"Morse? You alright?"

 _No, no he absolutely was_ not...

"It's Peter, open up!"

This time, Morse slowly opened the door after unlocking it, and peered out into the encroaching dusk hesitantly.

"Jakes?" Peter regarded him oddly as his fellow DS cast a wary right eye about him through the crack in the door, only half of his face visible, before turning his panicked gaze towards the space over Peter's shoulder, clearly searching for...well, _something._

"I'm the only one here, Morse. Didn't Strange tell you I was coming by?" Jakes sighed, and watched as Morse's gaze shifted back to his own. "Look, would you let me in? It's freezing out here and it's only getting darker!" At this was he admitted in finally, but not before Morse took a last, fleeting glance outside.

Once inside, Peter shrugged his coat off, taking a pre-cursory glance around Morse's new digs. It was definitely an improvement from the various bedsits he'd inhabited over the years, though there remained work to be done in filling the larger space with more personal belongings, of which Morse had few. As Peter draped his outer garment over the back of the nearest chair, he straightened his jacket out of force of habit, and eyed the living room with concern. The sky had grown dark out, leaving the interior of the house equally without the illumination of the fading winter sun.

"I'm turning your lamp on," Peter declared as he leaned towards the small side table and pulled the thin, metal chain downwards with a satisfying _click_. "Why did you shout just now, anyways...?" He cocked an eyebrow, his query having trailed off as Morse double-checked his door lock before turning around to slump against it, grasping his forehead. 

Endeavour stayed like that for some time, the only movement being that of the record needle as it lazily spun in circles atop the grooved, vinyl disc, volume turned down uncharacteristically low.

"...Morse?" 

When there was no answer, Peter drew close enough to hear his colleague's erratic breathing. 

"Morse," he began quietly, a tentative hand reaching out to grasp his shoulder, "I came by to make sure you were doing alright after...what happened, and I can see that's _not_ the case--"

"There was... _someone_ in my _house_ \--" Endeavour began softly, immediately setting Jakes on edge.

"Right before I came in?" Jakes queried.

Morse sighed, and raised his head slowly. "I...I don't know."

Peter had intended on asking just what the hell that meant, but was distracted by the startling damage done to the left side of Morse's face. He had been warned of the severity of it by Strange, after having been called on his off day and filled in on the tragic goings-on. Even then, the force of the blows that his fellow DS had sustained made him sick to his stomach.

" _Jesus Christ_ , Morse..." he swore, his sharp features wincing in sympathy.

Morse grimaced in return, and slowly moved to set himself down in his chair by the window. He then motioned towards a hard-backed, second-hand desk chair, indicating that Peter should do the same. Jakes promptly swung it around, positioning it so that they were closer, and leaned over with his hands atop his knees.

"Now, what did you mean by ' _I don't know?'_ "

Morse sighed, suddenly weary, as he nervously picked at a wayward fiber on the armrest. "Just that-- _I don't know.'_ " Before Peter could roll his eyes in exasperation, he relayed the entirety of his tale to his colleague, whose own eyes grew wider as the story commenced, jaw increasingly agape. Afterwards, Jakes turned around to study the now-only-slightly-damp depressions upon the short-pile carpeting himself, from which zero information could be gleaned.

"Are you having one over on me, mate?" Peter huffed with a smirk. "Because if you are, it's _not funny_ \--"

"I'm _not_ ," Endeavour responded hotly.

Peter rubbed at his head, shaking it slightly. "Alright. You said you'd been asleep--"

"It _wasn't_ a dream--"

"Maybe you walked in and forgot you had--"

"I kicked my shoes off by the door--"

"Strange said you might have a concussion--"

"I'm not _delusional_ \--!"

Jakes stood up abruptly. "Look, why don't I fix you some tea, yeah --?" he declared as he started towards the kitchen.

Morse all but launched himself from his chair with a panicked " _No!_ " that stopped Jakes cold.

"Morse...I'm only trying to _help_ you--"

Endeavour stood stricken, eyes pleading.

"It's not about the tea...well, it is, and it _isn't_..." He grasped at the back of his neck, and anxiously paced in place as Peter turned back towards him.

Morse inhaled deeply, exhaling in a rush. "Tea. I had gone back for my tea. I was walking away from Brewer, from the entire situation, when he reminded me I had forgotten my _tea_. I thought about leaving it, and...a-and I _wish_ that I had. I wish that I had just _walked away_... but I _didn't_ , and--" Voice beginning to crack, he completed his sentence by waving a hand over the right side of his face.

Peter watched as Morse sat back down, deflated, the shadows under his glassy eyes suddenly more prominent in the dim lighting. He took his seat opposite the injured man once more.

"You can't swear off tea forever, Morse. It's not proper and you know it." He noted that Morse's mouth quirked up in slight amusement, if ever so briefly. "I can't explain what you heard and saw inside your home, but I know that what happened traumatized you--" He was interrupted by Morse as he chuffed aloud--"It _did_ Morse, whether you realize it, or not. No one will think less of you for admitting to it, mate. Least of all, me."

Endeavour studied him for several moments before he gave a sharp nod in response.

"Right. I think I'm going to lie down soon, if it's all the same to you." He tipped his head, adding, "and thank you, for stopping by. I've been told DeBryn has the next shift in the morning."

Peter slowly stood up, sadly realizing that Morse had effectively cut off any further discussion on the matter at hand. "I-I can stay the night, crash on the sofa, if you'd feel safer--"

"No." Morse stood, as well, looking him in the eye. "Thanks for the offer, but I'll be alright tonight."

_And tomorrow...?_

A warm smile graced Peter's features as he retrieved his coat, turning to address Morse once more before leaving. "If you need anything, ring me up, yeah? And you might want to put more ice on that," he suggested, jerking his chin towards Morse's still-swollen eye.

"I think I can do that, Doctor."

With a final nod, Jakes exited, shutting the door behind him. Morse promptly locked it tight, standing for a brief moment with his aching, swollen temple pressed against the coolness of the wood. He then walked over to the bar, grabbed the lone quarter-bottle of scotch, and with his back against the door, slid into a sitting position down onto the entryway tiles.

Unscrewing the metal cap with shaking hands, he took a hearty swig, his wide, glassy eyes trained on the faintly damp impressions upon the carpet.

_Someone had been in his house._

* * *

Hours later, Morse awoke with a horrible pain in his neck, having slept slumped against the back of the door after finishing off the scotch. He moved his hand, and the now-empty glass bottle rolled away, producing a hollow sound against the tile. Gingerly he stood, and lightly scooted the bottle onto the carpeted floor with his foot.

He would deal with that in the morning.

Slowly executed paces brought him to his bedroom, having half a mind to turn off his record player enroute. Glancing his shoulder off the door frame with a groan, he stumbled into his bed, heaving himself onto the mattress fully clothed. Sprawling upon it in some semblance of comfort, he fell asleep instantly, all without bothering to turn the light on.

Had he done so, Morse may have looked towards his doorway and seen the dark, vaguely human-shaped shadow that filled the frame, watching him as he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And THAT'S why you always sleep with your bedroom door closed!


	4. A Walk in the Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DeBryn spends some time with Morse, and they both find something they hadn't known they were looking for.

_"In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks." _\- John Muir__

__

__Upon waking with a jolt to the soft streams of hazy sunlight filtering through his bedroom window, Morse discovered that much to his surprise, he had slept deeply through the night, arising only the once to deposit himself into bed. He supposed the combination of scotch and a concussion worked well, in that regard. Morse also quickly came to realize that he’d not been awoken by the daylight, but a gentle rapping upon his front door._ _

__Instantly alert, he stumbled off the bed, massaging at the still-present crick in his neck, and hesitantly approached his living room. Morse stole a glance at both the clock, its face reading an even eight, and the carpet along the way, the fibers having dried completely overnight. There were no longer boot tracks to corroborate his story, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that._ _

__Another round of gentle rapping sounded against the wooden door. Before he turned the lock inwards, Morse called out, “Max?”_ _

__“You were expecting someone else?” the Doctor’s voice rang out brightly, and Endeavour opened the door fully with the largest smile he could afford._ _

__“Good morning, Doctor DeBryn.”_ _

__Morse’s pleasant greeting did nothing to disarm DeBryn. The Doctor’s face fell upon seeing Morse’s own, his hand reaching out to gently cup his friend’s chin to have a closer look at the inflicted damage. “My dear detective,” he breathed, stepping inside to gain a better view. Morse swallowed thickly as DeBryn peered over his glasses to inspect the deep bruising around the curve of his socket, and the eye itself._ _

“Have you taken anything for it?” he asked, taking a step closer. Upon doing so, he kicked the edge of the glass bottle Morse had left from the previous night, leaving it to skitter along the floor. Max’s eyebrows rose. “Aside from _that_ , of course?" 

__Eyes averting the Doctor’s own, Morse winced in shame, surreptitiously scooting the bottle away with his socked foot. “Not yet, I’ve only just woken up.”_ _

__“Hmm.”_ _

__Morse cleared his throat, and shut the door behind DeBryn. “Would you mind giving me a moment--?” he motioned towards the toilet, already en route, but stopping to scoop up the offending glassware first and placing it on the nearest tabletop._ _

__“Of course, of course,” Max responded, divesting himself of his coat and scarf as he made his way into the kitchen. He’d intended on cooking up a proper English breakfast for the both of them, but was quickly reminded of whose abode he was visiting. The Doctor sighed to himself upon seeing the nearly empty jar of marmalade, sparse supply of butter, and half-loaf of bread. At least there was tea on hand, but those items did not a meal make. Morse returned just as he was closing the refrigerator door._ _

__“I’ve good news and bad news, Morse.”_ _

__“Oh?” the detective queried, eyebrow quirked as best it could._ _

__Debryn raised his own in response. “Yes, the bad news is that I’m afraid you’ve nothing substantial in terms of provisions with which to begin your day—“_ _

__Morse’s eyes grew wide in alarm at the thought of a full meal at that very moment. “Oh, I’m really not all that hungry, Max—“ he began, but the pathologist would have nothing of it._ _

__“You may not be, but I am. And now, for the good news.” Here, Max’s face brightened. “I’ve taken the morning off to spend time with you. I thought we’d have some breakfast, my treat, of course, and then perhaps a short walk after, for some fresh air.” DeBryn then looked around at the dim lighting and empty scotch bottle. “Get you out of this house, for a bit. If you're feeling up to it, of course.”_ _

__Several emotions flitted across Endeavour’s face in rapid succession, and he honestly hoped the swelling would make his expressions less discernable than usual. While the thought of a meal didn’t sound as appealing, the idea of getting out of his house did. Only, his eye was certain to draw unwanted attention._ _

__“That…that sounds great, Max, but perhaps I could duck into the corner shop for some sunglasses first—?“_ _

__Reaching into his front pocket did the Doctor smile warmly, producing a small pair of simple frames with tinted lenses, handing them to Morse._ _

__“Shall we?”_ _

__* * *_ _

__Max kept the conversation light as he drove them in his Morris to an oft-visited cafe, Morse's responses relegated to small noises of affirmation. It was obvious he was distracted, but DeBryn played along, letting him take refuge in his own thoughts for the time being. He was honestly surprised that Morse hadn't kicked up a fuss about leaving, but he supposed his friend either wanted a distraction, or simply didn't want to be alone. A quick glance at his watch declared it to be 8:45 a.m._ _

__It had been less than twenty-four hours since the horrific incident at the station._ _

The pathologist had spent what time he could on Brewer, and saved the bulk of his autopsy for the afternoon. Not only was it a clear-cut suicide, but he felt that Morse and his mental health came first. Besides, though dead men did tell tales, they needn't all tell them _immediately._

__It's not as if they had a schedules to keep, in the afterlife._ _

"Ah, here we are!" DeBryn declared, pulling alongside the curb, to which Endeavour responded with another polite _hmm_ of agreement. 

__Moments later, they were seated in a corner, per Max's request, and set about perusing the menu. Max noticed Morse looking at some point just past his own, staring off into the distance. He addressed his friend directly, and hoped for the intended effect._ _

__"What are you thinking of having, Morse?" he asked, voice light. "A coffee, perhaps?"_ _

__Morse's eyes drifted back towards his own, only paying attention by half. "Hmm? Oh, yes, please--"_ _

__Suddenly his forehead creased in consternation, his gaze sharpening even through the tinted lens to peer at Max._ _

"Wait, _coffee?_ " Morse asked pointedly, and scoffed lightly. "You've spoken to Jakes, haven't you?" 

__Max raised his eyebrows high in satisfaction. "That I have, Morse. He called me after visiting you last evening."_ _

"What'd he say?" came the follow-up query, with an edge of... _fear?_

__DeBryn spoke softly. "Nothing untoward, I assure you. Asked that I not prepare you any tea, for starters." At this did Morse look away, embarrassed, though Max could only speculate as to the reason. "He didn't say why, but I saw the shattered mug, Morse. I'm not so shoddy a detective myself, you know."_ _

__Morse offered a shy smile at this, relaxing somewhat. "No, you're not."_ _

__"Endeavour," the Doctor began, and that certainly got the detective's attention, "Peter said something had frightened you terribly. Care to talk about it?"_ _

__A few taut shakes of his head was Max's answer. "N-no, no, it was stupid of me, and he was right, it was probably the concussion--"_ _

" _Morse_ , there's no shame in thinking that someone might have broken into your _house!_ " 

A small huff of laughter escaped Morse's lips. "No? There were _boot prints_ Max, four of them, in my house, that _weren't there_ when I came home. Only after. " He leaned across the table, voice low, desperate. "How _mad_ does that sound to you? How mad must I be to...to think someone followed me home?" 

Max studied him keenly through his spectacles, eyes squinting with a dawning realization. "You don't mean a _person_ , do you?" 

__And he would never receive his answer as their server chose the most inopportune of moments to take their respective orders._ _

__If Morse ordered a coffee instead of his usual tea, then he certainly wasn't going to judge him for it._ _

__* * *_ _

__Morse never brought up the previous evening again, though Max doubted that he would. He hoped the story would out, in due time, but knew better after the many years of their being acquainted to never, _ever_ push. As he counted out the appropriate tip money, DeBryn turned to Morse with a smile. "How about a stroll around the block? A walk has always been my favorite digestif! What say you, Morse?" _ _

__"I thought that was what whisky was for," countered the detective, and to Max's pleasure, his lips quirked playfully. He still had good spirits left, then. "But, a walk would do me well, I think."_ _

__As they were only a block away, they both opted to take a well-worn path along the river, the Isis having unfrozen only a few days prior. Though snow was still present, it had warmed up considerably, and the rare winter sun shone brightly._ _

__"How is your head?" Max queried, and cast a scrutinizing, professional eye over Morse's profile in the brighter light._ _

__Morse shrugged. "Bloody sore," he swore uncharacteristically, "but the pills Popwell gave me help tremendously. Thank you," he finished quietly, "for asking, and for...this."_ _

__"My pleasure, Morse," DeBryn beamed brightly. "Anytime, my friend."_ _

__They walked in companionable silence for some time, taking in the gentle flow of the river and simply enjoying the prickling warmth of Earth's brightest star. Not far up ahead did Max note the bright glint off of something metallic in the snow, and it was clear Morse saw it, too._ _

__Endeavour's longer strides brought him to it first, the sun bringing out the bright gold and copper strands of his hair as he bent over to retrieve it._ _

"What is it Morse? Some _exciting_ forgotten thing or another, I'm sure?" 

__As Max approached, he could see that Endeavour had risen slowly, only to become completely rigid, with no answer given to his query._ _

__"Morse?" he cautioned, sensing an immediate change in his friend's demeanor. Stopping beside him, Max noted that every iota of colour had drained from Morse's face, save for the red hue of snow-ruddy cheeks and the blood-darkened mess of his eye. Trembling hands had cupped together and held something within, and Max craned to get a better view. As he did so, Morse withdrew one hand, and frantically patted down the pockets of his pants, his coat, breath stuttering out in puffs in the cold morning air._ _

__DeBryn cocked his head curiously at Morse's bounty, and declared, "It looks to be a set of keys..."_ _

"Yes," Morse confirmed with a strangled sob. "They're _mine_." 


	5. Visitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As those around him try to lift Morse's spirits, Endeavour comes to a startling and terrifying realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished it! 
> 
> The chapter, that is, not the story (oh, no, not even _close_ ). 
> 
> All I'll say is that several surprise social shindigs sidetracked me sufficiently.

" _What's going on?_ " - Marvin Gaye

DeBryn blinked uncomprehendingly at the shaken detective for several, very silent moments. It was truly rare that the pathologist should be left so devoid of answers, of wordy witticisms or clever retorts, but he had no earthly idea how he was supposed to respond to the unfathomable scenario before him. 

"When you say that those are _your_ keys, you mean a set you've lost previously, _correct?_ " he proceeded to clarify, eyebrows perched high.

Morse continued to stare aghast with wide eyes, one startlingly blue and the other intensely crimson in the sunlight, even behind the tinted frames. His response was barely above a whisper. "N-no..."

Max moved to cup his warm, gloved hands around his friend's singularly uncovered one. "Morse, I need you to think, now. When was the last time you _remembered_ seeing these?"

Endeavour's glassy eyes rose towards DeBryn's clear, blue ones. " _Remembered...?_ Max, I locked my door with these _this morning_. They've been in my pocket all day--"

DeBryn implored a bit more forcefully. "Are you _certain --?_ "

" _Yes!_ Yes, I am _absolutely certain_ , Max!" His hand clenched tightly around the keys, and brought up his other to grasp at the copper locks on the crown of his head in frustration. "I've been _fiddling_ with them in my coat pocket since we'd started on this path. I'd only just stopped in the last few minutes or so."

DeBryn eyed the burnished metal figments worriedly and with caution, as one would the roof of a dilapidated house that was beginning to deteriorate from above, though it was Morse that was slowly crumbling before him. He slowly pulled his hands away, adjusting his eyewear upon his nose with a gentle push upon the bridge piece.

"But, that's _just not possible_ ," he responded softly.

Endeavour tilted his head down, unfurling his fingers to look again at the offending, yet innocuous object within his grasp. He then tilted his gaze to meet that of the pathologist. "What if it _is?_ " he asked in an unsteady voice.

DeBryn stood stock still, and spoke as evenly as was possible. "What if _what_ is, Morse?"

"What if...?" The detective let the unfinished question dangle precariously between them for several moments, before quickly abandoning the thought, swiftly breaking eye contact with the doctor. "Just... _nevermind_. Nevermind about _any_ of this." He quickly shoved the keys back into his coat pocket, blinking rapidly as he cleared his throat. "Let's just..." DeBryn watched as he swallowed with some difficulty, and proceeded to look everywhere but at him. "Can we please just _go?_ " Morse quietly asked, risking a quick glance towards the doctor.

Max wasn't certain what expression his friend feared to find upon his face, but he hoped that whatever it was, it had not been plainly written as he considered Morse with a fair amount of sorrow.

"Of course, Morse. I'll run you back to yours before I head in this afternoon." He eyed him a moment longer, hesitating. "Are you quite sure you're feeling alrig--?"

" _Yes_ ," he blurted abruptly, and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Yes, Max, I'm sorry, this has all been wonderful, thank you, but I'd just like to go home now, is all." With a quick, sad smile did Morse turn back towards the direction of the Morris, his stride less languid than before.

"Of course," Max replied absently, quickening his own pace to fall alongside the detective.

Morse spoke not one more word on the ride home.

* * *

After parting ways amicably, Morse watched DeBryn drive off, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He then turned hesitantly, and regarded his living space with a fair amount of caution. Though he wasn't quite certain what he was looking for, he found all to be in the order he left it in, as was to be _expected_ when living alone.

Satisfied with the state of his home, he threw his coat upon a chair and kicked his shoes off, suddenly left drained and aching by the morning's activities. Though it was hardly noon, Morse closed his bedroom door and dove under the covers of his bed, and was out within moments.

Besides, he considered as he drifted off, he was certain to have another visitor, and soon.

* * *

Fred Thursday surveyed the interrogation room, the physical remnants of so horrific an incident having just been completely scrubbed from every applicable surface. The clean-up crew had done a remarkable job.

It smelled heavily of industrial bleach.

He had witnessed the grotesque tableau prior to the thorough cleansing, but some moments after Brewer's body had been carted away. Despite his combined years on the force and in the trenches, the result of violence was never an easily forgettable one. Fred doubted that Morse ever would.

As he turned to leave, he caught a glimpse of Jim Strange in passing, and called out to the other man.

"Strange, in here a moment, would you?"

Doubling back, Strange poked his head through the door in surprise. "Didn't see you there, Sir! Assumed it was still being cleaned." He took his time in looking around the small space, with a sense of awe. "They certainly made quick work of it, didn't they?"

Thursday nodded grimly in agreement. "And not a moment too soon."

"No," Jim mused, eyeing the corner where just yesterday he'd found Morse nearly catatonic, pale face flecked with crimson and the pink of another's flesh. Now it was a sterile, slate grey. "That's for certain." 

With a final assessment of the room, Thursday turned towards Jim. "Walk with me, if you have a minute."

"I've nothing that can't wait. What's on your mind?" 

The pair fell into step with one another, though Thursday hadn't actually considered where they were ultimately going. The modern layout of Castle Gate was large enough to get lost in, if one had half a mind to do so.  
Fred tried for casual, and fairly well succeeded, in his opinion. "I hear you're off to see Morse after your shift?"

"That I am, Sir. Anything you want me to pass on to him?" Jim asked as they turned a corner together. The Detective Inspector slowed his steps, pausing to exhale a deep, rumbling sigh, and turned a keen eye towards Strange.

In that moment, Jim rather thought that his superior looked more tired than he'd seen him in the past year alone.

Stopping altogether, and waiting for the lone uniform to continue on past, Fred addressed the other man candidly. "Jim, would you let me know if he seems... _off_ to you in any way? I suspect he was hit harder than he let on about, and he'll be doing his best to pretend he didn't nearly have his skull fractured while DeBryn is around," he explained, fondly adding, "the stubborn sod."

Strange nodded resolutely at his DI. "Of course, I will. Anything else?"

Thursday considered the request at length before responding. "If I remember correctly, Popwell confirmed that his observation period was only for twenty-four hours. Let him know I'll stop by to see him in a day or two to discuss his return, but that I'm also giving him some space." He paused to pull out his wallet, extricating a few bills and passing them off to Jim. "If you don't mind, see to it that he's a few grocery staples in the house, yeah?" 

"Of course, Sir."

The older man then added quietly, "And you tell him that if he needs anything, to ring up myself and the missus. Anytime, day or night."

Jim smiled briefly, and deep down, he knew that what Thursday was asking of Morse was akin to a miracle.

"Yes, Sir."

* * *

Deeply unconscious under the warmth of his bedsheets, Endeavour dreamed.

_He stood in the doorway of the nick's breakroom, ceramic mug in one hand and sugar spoon in the other, as he stirred at it absentmindedly. However, there was neither sugar on the spoon, nor cream in the cup. Though the aimlessly wandering passerby were distorted and slightly off-kilter, his focus solely rested on the vaguely familiar man who had just entered the building, his entire being brimming with a suffocating aura of anguish and sorrow._

_The sensation was deeply oppressive, and he needed to_ leave.

 _He set the brew down quickly, with enough force that the metal spoon_ clinked _ominously against the ceramic, and the top bit of scalding liquid leapt over the rim, forming a small puddle at the base. The familiar man immediately pivoted in Endeavour's direction._

_Morse slammed the door shut in a panic, pressed firmly against it as he held onto the doorknob tightly. He heard heavily booted footsteps approaching, and somewhere in the distance, a clock struck four. Anticipating the hardware beneath his grip to turn at any moment, he stood motionless, eyes tightly closed, listening. The footsteps halted, and there reigned silence for several moments more._

_Then, directly behind him, did Morse hear an uncanny, inhuman sound, a gurgling and rattling breath so close that he felt every wheezing exhale upon the nape of his neck. He spun around in terror, and before he could look into the face of whatever it was that shared his space so closely, the detective felt his left arm become ensnared in an unnaturally frigid grasp._

_With eyes transfixed upon the pale, bloodied hand that held his appendage tight, Morse found himself rendered utterly speechless. There began a pounding on the breakroom door, and as a result the grip increased in intensity, and he struggled to free himself. The knocking continued to grow louder in volume, which he thought strange._

_No, not strange._

Strange.

Endeavour awoke suddenly, gasping aloud as he returned to consciousness. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand, he flung the bedsheets away as he tumbled off the mattress, and struggled to calm his breathing.

Feeling quite out of sorts, from both the unexplainable incident of the morning to his darkly disturbing dream, Morse stumbled to the door, running a hand through his hair in an effort to straighten it. At that moment, however, as he stood at his threshold, wearing a full set of rumpled clothes from earlier in the day, and failing to quell the slight tremble in his hand as it hovered over his doorknob, the detective decided he honestly didn't care how he appeared to his one time roommate. Jim had no doubt seen him look worse than his current state.

Unlocking the door, he attempted a wan smile for the taller man. 

"Jim," he acknowledged, and pulled the door open to admit both Strange and the paper sack he was balancing on his side. "What's this, then?"

"A few provisions, courtesy of one DI Thursday," he responded with a hearty smile, and until then Jim thought he'd done a passable job of _not_ reacting to Morse's injuries. If Strange was being honest, he thought his convalescing colleague looked utterly _wrecked_.

The crestfallen look upon Endeavour's face quickly proved him wrong. "That bad?" he inquired with a wince, leading Jim into the kitchen so that he could place Thursday's gift down, pushing aside the empty scotch bottle on the countertop from earlier that morning. 

Strange sighed apologetically. "I'm sorry, matey, it's just... _yeah._ "

"It's alright, Jim. I don't exactly plan on entering any beauty pageants any time soon," he countered with a sly quirk of his lips to ease Jim's mind, and reached into the bag to begin sorting his unexpected bounty. Holding up a rather bright, red apple, Morse paused. "Thank you both for doing this," he said quietly. "I hadn't really thought about...anything else, really."

"No bother at all. Thursday sends his regards, by the way, said he'll pop over in a day or two for a visit, and...well, to discuss your return, and all." Jim regarded his colleague as he straightened upright slowly from where he'd been leaning over into the refrigerator, an odd look crossing his slightly glassy gaze. Morse cleared his throat lightly.

"Right..."

Jim had thought he'd have been overjoyed with the mere mention of returning to work. Given the circumstances, however, he wasn't sure when he would be so keen on the idea, himself. 

"He said to call, if you ever had the need. Same goes for me, matey."

"Mmm," was Morse's non-committal response, but to Jim it was at least an acknowledgement. He began to fold the bag away when he noticed a wet, reddish stain on Morse's white shirt sleeve.

"What's that on your shirt, Morse? You cut yourself?" He then eyed the fruit displayed on the countertop. "I didn't _think_ apples were overly sharp..."

"Hmm? What are you talking about --?" Endeavour raised an eyebrow, turning his left arm around until he, too, laid wide eyes on the rapidly growing scarlet stain.

Strange watched as Morse pushed the sleeve up his forearm, the cuff already unbuttoned and partially rolled, before the other man quite suddenly inhaled a loud, shuddering gasp, followed by a soft, whimpering moan. 

The darkening imprint of a large, hand-shaped bruise encircled the entirety of Endeavour's pale forearm, with thin rivulets of blood streaming from five indentations where sharp fingernails had clearly pierced the skin. 

To Strange's dismay, the wounds looked _fresh_.

He lightly grabbed Morse's wrist to look more closely at the injuries. " _Jesus Christ_ , Morse!" he cursed aloud. "When did this happen? Did Brewer do this to you?"

" _Y-Yes_ ," was Endeavour's choked answer.

 _Yes_ , he thought with a dawning horror, _he did_.


	6. In the Daylight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse isn't the only one trying to figure it all out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per a running discussion in the comments, I am now adding a BRAND! NEW! Warning Label to this story, as it seems to have a tendency to make my dear readers choke on their respective comestibles. Many thanks to **Drusilla_951** for supplying the perfect one: _Do NOT read while drinking coffee, eating popcorn, dipping scones in tea, or immersing popcorn in coffee._
> 
> And, why, _yes_ , this IS another chapter so soon after the last one.

" _It's easier to dismiss ghosts in the daylight._ " - Patricia Briggs

_Jim didn't believe him._

Endeavour could tell that his fellow detective wanted very much to believe this was an injury from the previous day, but hadn't been able to identify the _something_ that wasn't quite right. There was a moment of doubt that flitted across his colleague's countenance, and then Morse saw it, ever so briefly: a surreptitious glance towards the fingernails of his own right hand.

Morse withdrew his arm slowly from Strange's grasp. Jim looked up at him, and at that moment, he wished he had learned to school his features properly because he no doubt looked crestfallen.

"You don't believe me," he stated sadly, and Strange looked _ashamed_. "You think I did this to _myself_ \--"

Jim raised his arms, palms stretched out before him in a placating gesture. "Now, _hold on_ there, mate. I _never_ said anything of the sort. I just thought perhaps you'd reopened them in your sleep, because I can tell I've just woken you up." Morse looked away. "I'm no fool, Morse, we work in the same _department_. But, _that_ ," he declared with a pointed look, "is _not_ from yesterday."

Though Strange spoke reasonably and without judgment, that fleeting moment of skepticism that Morse witnessed had irrevocably wormed its way into his pysche. He didn't have any suitable response to Jim's declaration, and instead watched silently as one of the bloody rivulets slipped off the curve of his arm and spattered onto the kitchen tile below. Morse quickly pulled at a nearby drawer handle and opened it swiftly to withdraw a clean towel from within, wrapping it tightly around the offending limb and obscuring it from their view.

"I think I should take care of this," Endeavour said detachedly, effectively dismissing his guest. "Thank you for bringing everything over--"

Strange scoffed loudly, "You've _got_ to be pulling my leg, mate. I've only just gotten here, and it's _very_ clear that all is not well, that _you're_ not well--"

Endeavour's piercing gaze flashed in anger and held Jim's own. "Make certain you tell Thursday that, when he asks. He can add it to the list that Jakes and DeBryn must've started by now. At this rate, my coppering days will be over," he spat, before adding, "at least Peter will be pleased."

The shock and hurt from Jim was palpable. "Morse, what on _earth_ are you talking about? What've Jakes and DeBryn got to do with this? Nobody wants to see you go, leastways none of us. We're all trying to help you out." Here did Strange's voice soften, and he took a tentative step closer since his friend was no longer a spitting wild cat. "What's this _really_ about, matey?"

"I..." Endeavour closed his eyes, suddenly prickling with some unnamed emotion, and was horrified when he heard his voice cracking on that single syllable, just _one letter_. He breathed deeply. "I'm not certain I'll pass my psychiatrist exam," he admitted, his words wavering. "I don't know what's happening, but I think I might be going _mad_ , Jim." Upon reopening his eyes, he found it necessary to swipe away at the hot tears that had pooled beneath his lids, and were now coursing unbidden down his cheeks.

Morse leaned heavily with his back against his kitchen countertop, head hung low as he hid his face in his right hand. This was _not_ how he had intended this social visit to go. " _I'm sorry_ \--" he whispered, breath hitching slightly as he stifled a sob.

"You've nothing to be sorry _about_ , Morse," Strange responded kindly, giving his mate's shoulder a warm, encouraging squeeze. Had Endeavour looked up, he'd have seen only the utmost sincerity plastered across Jim's features. As it were, he gave his own head a small shake of denial.

"No, you don't understand--"

Jim grasped both of his shoulders now. "Don't understand _what_ , matey? Why is it that you don't think you'll be coming back? I'm your friend, Morse, so tell me, _please._ "

The conflicted detective withdrew his hand from his face, hesitant to meet Jim's eyes. What he had anticipated was pity, but only a resolute strength and desire to listen remained. Morse drew a deep breath, scrubbing the tears from his face as he stood tall.

"Alright," he eventually conceded. "I will, I'll tell you everything."

* * *

Modern office buildings, Max thought, were nothing more than great mazes constructed to confound humans as they took part in life's daily rat races, and the new police station that replaced the more intimate one at Cowley was no exception. 

Doctor DeBryn rarely made personal visits to Castle Gate, preferring to conduct business either in the morgue, for demonstrative purposes, of course, or over the telephone. Some conversations, however, needed to happen in person. 

He walked into the officer's bullpen, and made his way towards Thursday's office, one of the few he visited, and thus one of the few he memorized. Only, he soon realized, the DI was _not_ presently there. "Looking for DI Thursday, Doctor?" he heard Peter Jakes address him from behind, and turning on his heels, he hesitated most uncharacteristically.

"Yes...and no."

Peter raised his eyebrows at DeBryn. "Alright, well, if you are looking for him, he's out making inquiries, but if you're not, well...I guess you're in luck?" he shrugged with a slight grin.

Max acknowledged the humour in his request before focusing on Jakes, instead.

"I'd actually like a word with you, now that I've made the trip over here. We need to talk," he declared as Peter's brow furrowed in confusion, "about Morse."

* * *

Jim had, much to Morse's surprise, taken everything in stride. He suspected he approached the occurrences as he would the facts of a case, filing them away in a mental lockbox for later, no matter how absurd. 

The absolutely _batty_ facts of a very confusing case, as it were.

Now, Endeavour sat slumped in his chair, waiting for Strange to finally speak. He had cleaned and bandaged his arm thoroughly before telling all, and now he found himself oddly exhausted, once again, drained after his emotional near-breakdown.

" _Blimey_ , Morse," Strange remarked, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't exactly know _what_ to say..."

"That's alright," Morse shrugged. "I don't, either."

"It's just...I've never even believed in this sort of thing, wasn't raised with it. I don't know if I can begin to understand what I can't even see."

Morse's eyebrows twitched up, and what he wanted to say was _but I have seen it, I've seen legs, and bootprints, and I've felt the thumping on my door when nobody was there_ , but instead replied, "Same here."

"What are you going to do?" the man opposite him questioned. "About the shrink, and...whatever this is?"

Morse took a moment to consider his response. "I suppose I'll have to lie, won't I? 'Fake it 'til you make it,' as they say. It's that, or get shipped off in a straight-jacket for a one-way trip to Bellevue for the rest of my adult life," and if he visibly shuddered, Jim stayed mum about it. "As for the rest, there's someone I'd like to speak to in the morning about everything, as well."

"Oh, who's that, then? A priest?" Strange quipped, only half meaning it as a joke.

Morse quirked his lips into a smile, "No, better than that: someone who has seen it all."

* * *

Peter Jakes shut the door to his shared office space, as he was alone at the moment. Well, alone with DeBryn, anyways. He certainly didn't want anyone in the bullpen to overhear the conversation that was about to take place. 

The Detective Sergeant offered a chair to the pathologist, one less rickety than his own. Only half the furniture at Castle Gate had been purchased new, and he was certainly no Chief Superintendent.

Jakes leaned back in his own chair, fingers laced across his abdomen. "What is it you wanted to discuss, Doctor?" 

DeBryn leaned forward towards Jakes' desk, and told him about the incident with the keys from earlier that morning clearly, and concisely. Peter responded with naught more than a wide-eyed stare, and an odd laugh bubbled from within.

"Doctor, that's absurdly _im--_ "

" _\--possible_. Yes, I'm quite aware. But, had I not been there myself...? It defied all logic, but happened, nonetheless. My question for you," DeBryn continued conspiratorially, "is this: do you believe someone had been in Morse's home prior to your arrival?"

Peter blinked, straightening himself in the chair before crossing a leg over his knee, foot bouncing nervously. He hadn't wanted to light a cigarette in front of the pathologist, as a gesture of kindness, but now he felt he needed one more than ever. "I...I hadn't really thought about it, to be honest with you. I'd chalked it up to him probably being half asleep and out of sorts, but he dismissed me before I could really get the chance to take a good look around. Why?" Jakes queried, leaning forward to clasp his hands upon the desk between them. "Do you? Think someone was there yesterday?"

DeBryn inhaled contemplatively, slowly nodding in the affirmative. "Yes, in a manner of speaking. I think I do."

* * *

It was nigh on nine in the evening before Jim retired to his own home, hesitant to leave Morse on his own. To be perfectly honest, Morse remained a bit apprehensive, as well. 

After bidding each other a good evening, Morse hurriedly unfurled the wrapped gauze from his forearm, now stained with his own dried, rust-coloured blood. He wanted to _scream_ , to demand how the marks had gotten there, and even went so far as to open his mouth to do so, but then quickly realized that yelling demands at an empty house wasn't exactly going to win him over with the neighbors. Instead he took deep, measured breaths through his nose, and made a beeline to the shower.

Flipping on the harsh, fluorescent lighting, he studied his arm in the artificial brightness. The bruised handprint remained pronounced, livid even, the entirety of it edged in deep purple. He was as certain as the sky was blue that Brewer had not grabbed him yesterday. Endeavour dared to glance up towards the reflection of his face in the mirror, and the left side was as ghastly as it'd been the day prior. Both injuries were of the same color, now. Only, one was over a day old, the other but a few hours. 

He honestly tried not to think about it.

Morse noted that the blood had quickly ceased its flow once wrapped tight, and upon closer inspection it was clear that the five indentations had broken through the skin with some considerable force.

He tried not to think about _that_ , either.

Tossing the gauze aside, he turned on the shower faucet, divesting himself of all clothing before stepping under the spray of the blessedly heated, cleansing water. He first scrubbed the blood from his forearm, and then the salty residue of tears from his face. Morse took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting the water cascade over his scalp, his throbbing forehead, his shoulders, all while imaging the flow to be instilling him with a sense of calmness, and peace that he so desperately needed.

After several minutes of this, did he finally open his eyes, wiping the water from them.

Directly opposite him, on the other side of the opaque, white shower curtain, was a tall, dark, human shape visible through the fabric.

Endeavour stifled a gasp of horror, his hands flying up to cover his lips tightly, lest any sound escape. He remained motionless, utterly petrified, watching with rounded eyes as the dark form shifted a few feet in one direction or the other, as if it were pacing, waiting. The steaming water was beginning to cool down significantly, as was wont to happen, and yet, he dared not move.

The shower water had nearly turned to ice by the time Morse realised that the dark shape had seemingly just dissipated, and he dropped his hands from his mouth with a panicked gasp. His lungs desperate for air, Morse's chest heaved, his whole body shaking with fright and frigid water as he quickly spun the faucets into the 'off' position. 

Flinging the shower curtain aside in an act of bravado, the only sound to be heard was the shrill slide of the metal curtain hooks along the pole, and the chattering of his teeth. 

There was _nothing_ there.

Grabbing a towel from the nearby hook, Morse tightened it around himself and slid down into a seated position upon the tub's cold, ceramic floor, his glassy eyes fixated on the hazy, steam-filled space between himself and the door. 

He remained there, trembling, for well over an hour.

Morning could not come soon enough.


	7. Promise Me, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse seeks help from an unlikely source, and formulates a plan.
> 
> But, will it work?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is about half the size I wanted, and a day later, thanks to a little party I'd like to call #Snowmaggeddon2020. Instead of writing these here words, I was digging out that there car. 
> 
> FUNSIES FOR ALL.
> 
> I hope to have the other intended half up in a day or two.

Morse slept fitfully after the shower incident, having awoken several times over the course of the evening with an unspecified panic thrumming through his veins. He'd gone to bed with a chill, but whether it was the icy shower water seeping into his bones or the experience itself, Morse cared not to dwell. Now the small bedside clock read four a.m., and the restless detective lay there with a discouraged sigh. 

He couldn't recall the last time he'd been so hopelessly exhausted, and idly wondered just what exactly had happened in the past few days. The boots, the keys...none of it made any sense. Morse turned his forearm so that it caught the sliver of moonlight streaming in through his bedroom blinds, and was dismayed to see that the puncture wounds looked no less angry after they'd been thoroughly cleaned, the bruised skin taut and shiny, a dark purple just like his eye. He soon gently tucked it away beneath the covers, having seen enough of the disturbing and, quite frankly, impossible injury.

Thoroughly overwhelmed with the last week as a whole, Morse's eyes fluttered closed once again in an effort to seek a modicum of rest and solace before the dawn of day.

He would awaken twice more.

* * *

From where she sat in her small, yet homely, editorial office, Dorothea Frazil was able to see her newest guest arriving well before he rapped a quiet knuckle on her door. Smiling brightly, she called out towards him as she shuffled through a series of glossy landscape photos meant for the late edition.

"Snappy!" she addressed Morse playfully, harkening back to the time he'd worked undercover by portraying her photographer. It had been a good, long while since Dorothea had laid eyes on the clever, younger man, and as he opened the door with a good-natured grin, the reporter could tell immediately that something was...off.

"Good morning, Ms. Frazil," he greeted warmly, closing the glass-windowed door solidly behind him. 

Dorothea stood upright from where she'd been hunched over, holding up a photograph in each hand. "Your timing is impeccable as ever, Morse. Now, help me choose," she declared, first holding up the image in her right hand. "This one?" she asked before lifting up the other, "Or, this one?"

A rare, genuine smile lit up his features, or at least what she could see of them, as he still hadn't taken his sunglasses off. "You want me to choose, without giving me any context, between two pictures that look exactly the same?" he laughed. She rolled her eyes in jest.

"Why, yes, actually, I'm having a hard time deciding. But, not only are they two completely different subjects, but photographers, to boot. To be fair, I'm surprised you can see anything at all with those sunglasses still on." 

Almost instantaneously did Morse's demeanour change, the smile becoming more of a grimace as he tugged at his earlobe nervously, lense-covered gaze averted to the floor. "Ah," he said quietly, but failed to elaborate further. 

Dorothea put the photos down on her desk before walking over to him, a look of curiousity upon her face.

"Did someone best you in a fight?" she jested lightly, but genuine concern caused a small flutter in her heart. Her friend was acting more oddly than usual...

Eyebrows quirked upwards behind darkened lenses. "Something like that...I just didn't sleep well, is all--" Before he could properly react, she was already reaching out to pull away the frames. Startled, he stepped back quickly and hit her door with his back, rattling it enough to draw attention from the other staff. "Ms. Frazil, _don't--!_ "

She hesitated briefly before moving in once more, gently pulling them away altogether as the detective before her flinched slightly. 

Dorothea regretted her actions almost immediately.

"Oh... _Morse_..." she gasped quietly, placing the glasses down so that her right hand could be free to lightly cup her friend's cheek, ever so slightly tilting it towards her to gain a closer look. This wasn't from a scuffle, she realized in horror, it was from a _beating_. The younger man's eyes remained closed, and upon contact he made a small noise in the back of his throat, leaning into the comforting touch. Morse's body seemed to sag, and to Dorothea's consternation she came to the conclusion that he was actively trying his damnedest to hold himself together in front of her.

"What... _what happened?_ " Ms. Frazil implored. Endeavour inhaled deeply through his nose, and with a flutter of russet lashes, he opened his eyes completely. 

Try as she might to not react in a dramatic fashion, Dorothea's other hand flew to her mouth as she exhaled a gasp of shock and surprise. Though it had been several days, Endeavour's left eye was as crimson as ever. His voice was thick when he finally spoke. "Have you heard," he inquired of her, "about what happened Tuesday? At Castle Gate?"

She shook her head negatively, blinking back her own tears. "No, no I haven't, I've been in London. I'd only just gotten back to work today, and these photos were at the top of my agenda." He looked away at this, seemingly disappointed that he would now have to explain the situation. "If you don't want to talk--?"

Morse quirked his lips slightly, in the vaguest approximation of a grin. "The short of it is, the grieving father of a missing lad from a year past spent what would have been his son's fourth birthday taking his disillusionment with the police out on me, before blowing his brains out at the last moment, instead of mine."

Ms. Frazil searched his gaze for... _something_ , but found only stray tears he'd tried his best to surreptitiously swipe away. "That's...awful. I'm _so incredibly_ sorry, Dear--" 

"That's not the worst of it."

The reporter froze in place, her hand coming down from Morse's cheek to rest on his shoulder. "I don't understand how that's possible," she declared bluntly. Her friend was full of awful surprises, today.

He took a deep breath, weight shifting from one leg to the other as he ran a hand nervously across the back of his neck. 

"Ms. Frazil, I came here today because, well, you've been...around--" 

Dorothea quirked an eyebrow high, head tilted at a slight angle. "I've _what_ , Morse?" she asked, only half in jest.

The detective winced visibly before continuing. "I mean, as experienced as you are--"

Both of Ms. Frazil's eyebrows rose at this. "Well, now I certainly don't know where this conversation is going--"

Morse flushed red with embarrassment, smiling at his poor choice of words. "Not _there_ , I assure you. Ms. Frazil, in your days as a reporter, have you ever heard of traumatic events sometimes...maybe coming home with people?"

She eyed him inquisitively, searching for his true meaning. "You don't mean memories," she eventually asked softly, "do you?"

"No."

A small hum sounded in her throat before answering. "Yes, yes I have, actually. A few that stand clear in my memory, at least. I suspect you have someone that followed you home, too?"

Morse nodded, swallowing thickly. "Yes, yes I do," he admitted aloud for the first time that week. "And I think I need help."

Dorothea mirrored his nod, a slight chill creeping up her spine. "Alright, then. Care to tell me the details?"

"How much time have you got?"

* * * 

An hour had passed, easily, and the longer Morse spoke, the more disturbed he became about what had actually occurred. To _him_. Within the past _few days_. He could tell Ms. Frazil was internally horrified, as well, and doing a fine job of not projecting her own shock at the circumstances surrounding his current, unexplainable predicament. She stared wide-eyed in rapt attention as he spoke, and to his gratitude, she never once expressed doubt in him. 

She then relayed instances that paralleled his own experiences, and what had been done to remedy those situations. Most of those she had interviewed were trauma survivors in one way or another, but though their tales varied, they all shared something in common: they all were convinced that the dead had followed them home, and Dorothea was persuaded to believe that someone was similarly visiting Morse, too, and they were becoming increasingly violent towards him.

She shivered visibly at the realization.

After their respective tales had been told, a heavy silence ensued. "Morse, if you need the name of a good priest--"

Morse smiled genuinely, shaking his head slightly. "No, thank you, Ms. Frazil. I...I know what I have to do."

She studied him momentarily, frightened for his well-being. "Do you?"

"Yes...yes, I think so," he spoke assuredly, but yet it did nothing to allay the reporter's fears. "Thank you, for listening--"

She had watched him pace for over an hour, with so much pent up fear and anxiety contained within his lithe frame, shadowed under wide, terrified eyes, that Dorothea feared he would burn himself out before he could complete his task, whatever it may be. She stood up abruptly, and wrapped her arms around him as she pulled him into a warm hug. She felt him tense, then relax as he melted into the comforting embrace, returning the gesture by encircling his arms around her in kind.

She squeezed him tightly, a hand bringing his tense neck to rest upon her shoulder. They stayed like that for several moments, and she found herself wondering when was the last time the younger man had been held so. "Please take care of yourself, Endeavour," she implored of him, "and don't hesitate to ask for help. I'm worried about you, and I couldn't bear to see you hurt any further. _Promise me_."

She released him gently, and was taken aback by the gratitude and honesty portrayed so openly, so rarely, on his face. 

"I will, Dorothea. I promise."

As he left her sight, Ms. Frazil hoped it would be enough. For his sake.

* * *

Endeavour returned home, and for the first time in four days, he felt as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from his soul. Opening the door, he stepped inside with confidence, surveying the room around him. Clearing his throat, he did what he had so often considered doing every day that last week, every single terrifying morning and afternoon since the ordeal had begun.

Since David Brewer had taken up residence in his home.

"David," he began, hesitantly at first, then stronger as the words came, emboldened by his emotions. "David, I'm sorry, but please, _please_ leave this house. You don't belong here, and I'm asking you to leave me alone."

Morse swallowed, waiting another moment in silence. " _Please_."

Whatever reaction Morse was expecting, it didn't manifest. No knocking on doors, nothing jumping from the shadows, no phantom footsteps appears in his living room. He took a deep, deep breath and released it calmly, closing his eyes and slumping his shoulders in exhaustion.

A small sound rattled on the kitchen counter, and Morse opened his eyes slowly, turning towards it.

The empty scotch bottle he had placed on the countertop three days prior, the one DeBryn had seen, the one he had forgotten to throw away, made a hollow noise upon the kitchen surface as it spun in a small, tight circle, almost as if it had not been set down properly and was eventually settling its way down to rest flat against the counter. He watched it with wide eyes, daring not to breath, daring not to move. Morse stood as still as one could as the bottle continued its small circling motion.

Until it stopped.

In the blink of an eye did that same bottle fly towards Endeavour's face, as a pitcher would throw a fastball, causing him to drop to the ground instantly with a terrified yelp, shaking limbs brought up to protect his head as the bottle forcefully crashed into the wall behind him. Glass shards rained from above, the jagged particles landing to rest in his hair.

Trembling in fear, Morse clamored upright, and then ran out of the door as quick as he could.

The pub awaited.


	8. Promise Me, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bottles aren't the only things getting smashed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the second half of Part I, but then doubled in size from there. Sorry, not sorry.
> 
> Also, I've taken liberties with the floor plan and furniture in Morse's new home.

Peter Jakes found himself at the Eagle and Child on occasion these days, not having frequented the copper-friendly pub in quite some time. _At least two whole weeks,_ he gathered. So, long enough. He hadn't really a reason why he'd been absent, but mates moved on and the like, and it took some time to reestablish a proper after work drinking crew. The public house's worn, wooden walls, ingrained with several lifetimes of tobacco smoke and cigarette ash, had weathered their fair share of celebrations and wakes, a friendly home when one's own roof and four walls grew too lonely to bear. Among the various rank and file that he sometimes accompanied post-shift hours, Strange was usually down for a pint or three, as was the Guv'nor, on occasion. And even rarer so, Morse.

Which was why his presence no less than startled Peter as he turned in the busy establishment, fresh draught in hand, to lay eyes on his hunched form, seated in a far, dark corner, a prime pub spot at that hour.

He'd already been there quite some time, then.

Jakes navigated through the tide of dark suit coats and loosened ties, amber liquids in various stages of consumption, finally surging through the crowd to slide into the chair opposite Morse. "Wotcher, mate," he greeted, so as to not spook his colleague. One look at his fellow detective sergeant, however, led him to the conclusion that something already had.

Morse's eyes were wide and significantly bloodshot, at least the blue one was, as he fixated on some completely arbitrary point past his half-empty tumbler of scotch. Upon hearing Peter's greeting rise above the din of the crowd, he brought his eyes up slowly, blinking in pleasant surprise as the dark-haired detective came to seemingly apparate before him.

" _Jakes!_ " he crowed in delight. "Wh'n did _you_ get 'ere?"

While Peter hadn't been naive enough to believe that the tumbler before Morse had been his first or second, he quickly came to realize that perhaps the soused detective sergeant was currently working on his fourth or _fifth_. 

"Just now, Morse. Just now." Peter took a sip of his own beverage, and watched as Morse followed suit with his own, thumping the glass back into the table with more force than necessary. 

Or _sixth._

"Oh! _Good._ Tha's good, then." Endeavour scrunched his face up, forehead creased with concentration for the longest time, before blurting out, "How w's _work?_ "

If Peter were a lesser man, he'd have been laughing his bollocks off at Morse's attempt at conversation, as he struggled with his attempt at making this interaction seem perfectly normal. Something had clearly happened to drive him to the pub mid-day in an effort to get sufficiently _hammered_. Whereas Morse had been self-conscious about his eye before, he seemed to have either forgotten in his current state, or no longer cared. Glassy eyes were accented by deep shadows, and his normally fair-haired friend appeared paler in the pub light, as the dusting of freckles across his cheekbones appeared more noticeable than usual. Peter'd thought that the bruising and swelling would have diminished considerably by now, but it was clear that an applied ice pack had never _once_ touched his face.

He swallowed another sip of ale. "Work was the usual," he replied simply, and attempted to steer the discussion. "What about you, Morse? How are you?"

Endeavour stared into his drink, shrugging slightly. "I, um...I saw Ms. Fr'zil. _She_ believ's me..." Peter waited as Morse seemingly trailed off, hoping he would say more. Several beats passed before he finally did, jerking his head up abruptly. "Oh! D'vid _threw_ a bot'le a' me." 

_David? Who the hell was David? Unless..._

"Morse, who is _David?_ And did you say he threw a _bottle_ at you?"

His drunken colleague jerked his head once in a nod, raising his eyes to meet Peter's.

"Do you mean David _Brewer--?_ "

Morse sat up straight as he could, gaze unwavering. "Th's what I _said_."

Leaning forward across the table, Jakes cocked his head, quite unsure how exactly to continue the conversation. He thought back to his earlier words with DeBryn, and still things weren't entirety making sense. "Morse...how many of those have you had--?"

"He's escalating, Peter. It's getting worse."

Morse relayed this with such clarity, devoid of his drunken slurring, that Peter felt a cold trickle of fear caress the length of his spine. He watched as Morse propped his elbows atop the table, and sunk his head into his hands, so that the top of his russet crown was facing Jakes. Something within his curls glinted in the light. 

Jakes lightly placed his left hand atop Morse's arm so that he didn't startle him, reaching for the unknown object with his right. "Hold still, mate. There's something in your hair..."

With his own two fingers did Jakes withdraw a small shard of glass, and once he got closer, could see the many, tiny fragments that reflected even in the low light. To his dismay, it looked as if someone had showered fragments of glass upon his colleague's head.

They weren't the thinness of window glass, however, but thicker, like that of a bottle. 

He gulped loudly, addressing Morse very clearly once more. "Mate, you said David threw a bottle at you. Were you hit? I don't see a cut."

Endeavour shook his head, causing a few more glass particles to fall upon the table in the process. "No, it hit th' wall. I duck'd." He lifted his head, taking in Peter's shocked expression. Then, his eyes alighted on the glass shard pressed between his co-worker's fingers.

"I _tol'_ you," he declared, pointing at the glass.

Peter stared in disbelief at the fragment. "I know you did, Morse, it's just..."

"I'm _drunk_ , Pet'r," Morse declared with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, "not bloody _delusional_."

Setting the glass down, Jakes nervously withdrew a cigarette, lighting it with slightly trembling fingers. "I know, Morse. I know."

Morse then lifted his own tumbler, downing the well-variety scotch with a wince. He eyed Peter as he puffed away, foot bouncing anxiously beneath the table, his dark eyes trained on the bottle fragment.

"I'll get us anoth'r," Endeavour declared.

Peter Jakes knew when not to argue.

* * *

Peter lost track of time after that, and understood why Morse had wanted to drown himself in alcohol. There were more drinks had than meaningful conversation, and as the evening wore on, he discovered his troubled friend making less and less sense. Which, knowing Morse, meant he was onto something.

_"It's four," Morse had declared with finality. "I know it's Dav'd beca'se it's FOUR. Four boot marks, fo'r door knocks, four O'clocks, four b'rthdays. FOUR."_

Peter had been too far gone to decipher Morse's code at that moment in time.

It was nearing nine in the evening when Peter excused himself from the table, Morse having all but fallen asleep. There wasn't any way whatsoever that he was going to be carrying him home in this state. Fumbling through his wallet, Jakes found a crumbled and well-utilized phone list, wherein he squeezed one eye closed to better focus on the rotary dial.

It hoped it wasn't too late, or that he was out, or on a date--

After the third ring, a mostly alert voice answered on the other end of the line.

" _Hello?_ "

Peter smiled around his cigarette. "Mr. Strange! Wotch'r, mate!" 

" _Jakes?_ " Jim asked quizzically, sensing that the detective sergeant was a few into his cups. " _Do I need to come into the Stat--?_ "

Jakes cut him off. "The pub, Jim, yes. You need to come to the pub." He then glanced over to where Morse had rested his head on the tabletop, most likely down for the count.

"Have I got a favor t'ask of you."

* * *

Jim Strange couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Morse out at the Eagle and Child, as the introspective detective had always preferred to drink alone. This, he decided, as he assisted a very intoxicated Peter Jakes with hauling Morse out to his vehicle, was most definitely a _first._

They positioned Morse in the rear passenger seat, while Jakes took the seat opposite his passed out colleague directly behind Jim. He rested the uninjured side of Morse's face against his shoulder, letting him sleep more comfortably on the ride home. Once Jim started the engine and pulled away from the pub, he glanced at the rearview mirror, unsure what unspoken events had transpired between them that evening. 

It was a nice change of pace, however, not having them at one another's throats. Peter had told him little of why Morse had decided to get absolutely smashed that evening, and when Jim inquired further, he was told the story would out itself in the morning.

Presumably, Jim surmised, after Peter's massive hangover had diminished. As it were, Jakes was staring blankly out of the window, but Jim bet money he was off in his own head given the intensity of his gaze. Something serious had happened, and Jim had a good clue as to what.

Morse wasn't exactly one to deal with trauma very well, and neither was Peter.

* * *

Not ten minutes later did they arrive at Morse's front door, propping him up betwixt the two as Jim fumbled with the house keys. Peter vaguely remembered a story about those keys that DeBryn had relayed to him just yesterday, but that, too, had flown the memory coop, as it were. 

Once inside and the home illuminated, was Morse lain on his side on the couch, his jacket draped over him as a blanket, and a waste bin positioned close by. He would need that in the morning for certain, Peter decided.

He stepped back as Strange rearranged the pillows on the couch so that Morse had less of a chance of rolling into his back in the middle of the night, and immediately crunched down on some glass.

"Are you sure one of us shouldn't stay with 'im, overnight?" Strange asked.

Peter vaguely registered Jim's voice as he looked down to study the sudden appearance of broken glass on the floor, his eyes drifting upwards as he found a chip in the wall paint, heart thumping erratically.

It rested at about eye level.

Had he been less intoxicated, and had he been less _fucking scared_ , Peter would have said yes. _Should_ have said yes.

But, he didn't. He wanted out of there, _NOW._

"I doubt he's going to w'nt comp'ny in the mornin', mate," he managed to convince Jim, and himself. 

With a frown did Jim nod relunctantly, promising himself that he'd ring him first thing in the morning. Well, _afternoon_ , he amended as he watched Morse snoring softly on his couch, dead to the world.

"Rest up, matey," Strange called out as he shut the door tightly, giving a final look at his slumbering colleague.

A heavy silence permeated the house as Morse rested, after the rumble of an engine puttered away. Soft intakes of breath were joined with the subtle ticking of the second hand on a clock, nothing more than background noise.

And so, Endeavour slept.

* * *

Some hours later, he remained heavily unconscious, steadily in the throes of deep sleep as the clock quietly ticked on.

In Morse's living room, perpendicular to the couch, was there a framed mirror hung on the wall, suggested by the realtor to make the space appear bigger. It fooled no one, leastways him, but remained, nonetheless.

Now, in the pre-dawn hours, did that mirror contain a reflection of movement, entering in one edge of the frame and exiting the other, enroute to the couch. There wasn't the suggestion of an amorphous entity, this time, but the solid reflection of a man as he passed by silently.

Half of his face was missing.

Endeavour's soft breaths hitched, before they ceased completely, and his face began to slowly turn a subtle shade of red, then purple. His brow creased in his sleep, lips becoming ever paler, tinged with blue. Suddenly, he awoke gasping, choking, too tired and still too drunk to awaken fully, and shifted slightly on the couch before immediately falling back to sleep.

Had he looked at the clock, he would have seen that it was 4am.

And had he looked in that same mirror, Endeavour would have seen a perfect circle of bruises blossoming at the base of his neck, encircling his throat.

It would still be there in the morning.


	9. A Stranger and Afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse awakens, and then rather wished he hadn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter with what we know about the next season in mind, and tried to reflect a bit of both headcanon, and actual canon.
> 
> Sometimes, the lines? They blur.
> 
> I also maybe wrote the first part with my own, _ahem_ , experiences in mind. I hope it translates!
> 
> Happy Superb Owl Day for all those Stateside! Happy Sportsballing!

_I, a stranger and afraid_  
_In a world I never made._

\- A.E. Houseman, _The Laws of God, The Laws of Man_

When Morse awoke next, it was due to the ear-piercing screech of a telephone, the shrill sound drilling into his frontal lobe with the intensity of a jagged ice-pick. He lunged haphazardly off his bed-- _why was he on the couch?_ \--and snatched it off the receiver, nearly upending the small side table as he did so. Squinting through his one open eye at the offending instrument, Morse careened sideways into the neighbouring wall, shoulder first. He hissed at the impact, but stayed standing, awkwardly slumped at an angle against the wall. 

_Shit._

_Was he still drunk?_

Almost as an afterthought, he held up the receiver, and spoke roughly into it. " _H'lo?_ "

" _Morse? It's Jim. You doing alright, matey?_ "

Endeavour cleared his throat as he prepared to lie.

"Hmm? Yes, yes, I am. Of course. _Yes_." He was doing a fine job of convincing _no one_ , sounding as he did like a robot pretending to be human.

A heavy sigh. " _I know you're lying, Morse, but at least you're alive. Get some more sleep, yeah?_ "

Now _there_ was a brilliant plan of he'd ever heard one...

"Yeah, um, alright. Yes, thanks."

With no small effort did he hang the receiver up, having pushed himself off the wall unsteadily. _That conversation certainly went as smoothly as gravel-laced whiskey_. Which, upon second thought, he may have partaken in the evening prior, given how badly his throat ached. _Good CHRIST did it hurt_...

Morse then stood wavering in the middle of his living room, and attempted to put the pieces together.

_He'd gone to the pub, and ran into Jakes..._

That was all of the recollection he needed to know to fill in the rest of the regrettable night. It'd been a long time since he'd tied one on in public, least of all with _Peter_. Strange had been there, too, but only as an escort when he'd been too drunk to-- 

_Sod it all._

Running fingers through his hair with a groan, he quickly established a hangover hierarchy of needs: loo, painkillers, water, food, _shower_.

_Best get to it, then._

* * *

Downing several pills, he in turn splashed some water on his face in an effort to awaken. He'd refused to turn the light on in the small toilet, relying on the natural lighting present, because he certainly hadn't wished to see himself in the mirror.

_Absolutely not_.

He didn't need a reason to be more ashamed of himself than he already felt. 

Morse hesitantly tried cracking both eyes open as he collapsed back down on the sofa, noting that his coat had been utilized as a blanket, and his waste bin drawn nearer. He made a mental note that the next round ( _rounds_ ) of drinks were on him.

If he ever decided to drink again.

The sun's rays weren't as high in the sky as he had imagined them to be, and soon found out why. The nearest clock face read _'2:07 pm_.'

He'd slept for over _twelve hours_.

Before he could even contemplate how else to spend his day was there a solid series of knocks on the door.

Rising hesitantly, though a little more steadily, he took caution in opening the entryway.

On his stoop, hat cocked aside, hands tucked into the pockets of his great coat, stood the tall, broad shouldered form of Fred Thursday.

_BOLLOCKS._

"Morse," greeted his Guv'nor cautiously, a curious look crossing the older man's visage as his bagman opened the door fully, and right then did Endeavour wish he were anywhere but there.

_His mind flashed briefly to the cold interrogation room floor, to Brewer's lone eye rolling back into its socket for the last time, and he withdrew that thought as quickly as it came._

"Sir! Ah, come in, please," he invited, hoping he hid his shock well. Although Strange had told him Thursday would be dropping by, it had seemed _so_ long ago since he'd spoken to him about it. Now he ran a hand through his hair in a weak attempt at straightening it, having an idea of just how awful he looked given not only how he _felt_ , but also the disapproving eye his superior cast over him.

Thursday first set his hat upon the garment rack, giving Morse the once-over as he shucked his coat off. _So, not a quick visit, then_...Fred took in the suit coat that lay rumpled on the couch, which had clearly been slept on, the small bin beside, the broken glass from where a bottle had been shattered on impact, and last of all, Endeavour's obviously hungover appearance. He did _not_ look pleased.

Morse stood before him suddenly self-conscious, pulling down at the hem of his jumper to straighten it as if that were the issue. He cleared his sore throat, and motioned towards the better of his chairs. "Um, please, have a seat, I'll go, ah, make some tea, or coffee--" 

"No," Thursday interrupted tersely, glancing at the broken bottle glass as he spoke, "no, _I_ will. _You_ sit down. I'm not sure you can stand to lose any more cups."

The tips of Morse's ears pinked in embarrassment. "S-Sir," he stammered as Thursday walked past him into the kitchen, "it's...not what it looks like."

He didn't receive a response as Fred set about angrily making tea in his small kitchen, if one could even _do_ such a thing. _What had he done wrong?_ Threading fingers through his hair, he exhaled slowly, snatching the suit coat off the couch and draping it over the back of the previously offered chair. He then set about pacing the length of the sofa, heart racing erratically. This had the makings of the worst hangover _ever_. 

After the kettle had been put on to boil, Thursday walked back into the living room, sitting down on the edge of the adjacent desk chair, his lips a tight, thin line. Arms folded tightly across his chest, Endeavour looked away, grateful he wasn't forced to sit.

"Went out last night, did you?" asked Thursday, as if the answer wasn't glaringly obvious.

"I...yes, I-I did, but I hadn't exactly _planned_ on it--"

Thursday's voice turned to granite. "Get into a fight while you were there, too?"

Morse visibly wavered where he stood, taking a step back.

"Wh-what are you talking about? I wasn't...I didn't _fight_ anyone at the pub... "

Thursday raised his eyebrows in disbelief, the disappointment clear on his face. "Your neck says otherwise, Morse. Hope you gave the other guy as good as you got."

Eyes round in disbelief, Endeavour turned and walked to the mirror hung at his back, and tugged down at his shirt collar. There, at the curve of his neck, were vivid, hand-shaped bruises impressed into his flesh.

He'd been nearly choked to death, and didn't even _know_ it.

A chill blossomed and radiated at the base of his spine, skin suddenly clammy. He inhaled a shaky breath, a wave of lightheadedness sweeping over him, and Morse tipped his head into his hands, hunching over slightly as standing upright became a chore. A low-level whine in his head, steadily increasing in crescendo, muffled the sound around him.

"You're supposed to be resting, Morse. Have you even applied a _single_ ice pack to that eye of yours, or otherwise listened to a _word_ of Popwell's advice?"

He vaguely understood that his guv'nor was speaking to him, but the words were distant, faded. Eyes squeezed shut, he found himself gasping for air as he rocked on his feet.

And then, steady hands grasped his shoulders and gently guided him back towards the sofa. He clutched one hand at his own collar in an effort to breathe as he sat, the other gripping the edge of the cushion as if it were a lifeline. Morse vaguely felt fingers grasping the hand at his neck to pull it away, and then a broad hand was firmly between his shoulders, applying pressure so that his head hung between his knees.

" _Breathe_ , lad," Thursday commanded gruffly. " _Just BREATHE_."

There was a dip in the cushions as Thursday sat aside him on the sofa, and then a hand was pressing wide, encouraging circles into a continuous loop against his back in an effort to calm him down. It was working.

Endeavour was able to suck in a noisy gasp after some time, his breathing returning to normal. Propping one elbow atop his knee, he was able to raise his torso enough to sink his head into his hand, hiding from the Inspector's view.

"What's going on with you, Morse?" Thursday asked softly, the grit from earlier all but gone from his voice. He rested a hand lightly atop his bagman's shoulder. Morse had so much to say, but _no clue_ as to where he should begin, so he simply sat there quietly, aching head in hand as his heart thrummed on.

"Endeavour," Fred implored with a discernable sadness in his voice, "talk to me, son. _Please_."

Drawing in a deep breath, now that he could, Morse raised his head and turned towards his Guv'nor slightly. "I don't know what's happening to me, and I'm _scared_ ," he admitted aloud, facing the other man fully.

Fred nodded in understanding. "What you witnessed was _horrific_ , Morse, and that's going to stay with you for awhile--"

"No, no, it's not that, sir, it's... _other_ things, and I don't know how to explain them--"

Thursday squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "Dr. Popwell can recommend a good therapist, if you'd like someone else to talk to--"

" _No!_ " 

Morse stood abruptly, much to Thursday's surprise. "I'm only trying to _help_ you, Morse! I'm sorry I came down hard on you earlier, but you're not taking care of yourself as you ought to--"

Raising his left arm, Morse clenched his jaw, and pulled his sleeve up roughly so that the dark bruise from days prior was on full display before Thursday. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, the exasperation and anxiety, and presented it to the Detective Inspector. Fred looked horrified.

"Where did you get this, then, the nick?"

"No."

Fred narrowed his eyes in confusion. "Last night?"

Morse stared at his arm a moment longer before turning his piercing gaze upon Thursday, debating on his next move. "No. No, I fell asleep Wednesday afternoon, after spending the morning out with DeBryn. I'd happened upon my house keys on the ground nearly twenty yards ahead of where we'd yet to walk, just ask Max. He'll tell you. Later, I'd had a nightmare, before Strange came over that evening, about trying to flee from Brewer. At the station. He'd grabbed my arm, in my dream, and then I woke up. To _this_. _Bleeding_. Jim saw it first, and _no_ , I didn't do it _myself_ , he checked. I came home yesterday afternoon, and watched as that glass bottle in pieces by the door launched itself at my head, and then I fled, to the pub, where I was with Jakes all night until he and Strange brought me home." He watched as Thursday's eyes steadily widened, and now that he was talking, he couldn't stop, no matter how insane he sounded. Morse pulled down the collar on his shirt beneath the jumper again. "As for _this?_ I have _no idea_ where it came from, but I know I haven't been alone in this house since the day David Brewer blew his brains--"

Just then, the shrill whistle of a boiling steam kettle rent the air, and Morse bodily _flinched_. Fred stood slowly, and clapped reassuring hands on the younger man's upper arms. "Hey, now! It's only the kettle, lad," he said quietly, and headed towards the stove to turn it off. Endeavour remained where he was, breathing heavily through his nose, completely aware that he just told his Guv'nor that he believed a dead man followed him home that day.

_His career was over..._

When Thursday reappeared, he was shaking his head sadly. "I'm afraid you've only orange pekoe, Morse."

Endeavour blinked stupidly, answering, "Sir?"

Shrugging, Fred walked over to the coat rack, and began placing his own outer garment back on. "I'm afraid there's nothing for it, lad. You'll be needing something stronger, like an Earl Grey. Never in the history of England has _orange pekoe_ ever helped a hangover."

Morse pulled his sleeve back down, eyeing his superior with confusion. "I-I'm sorry, I don't understand--"

A small, mirthful smile graced Thursday's features. "Truth be told, Win asked me to invite you over for tea soon, but instead of _asking_ you, I'm _telling_ you." Sensing his bagman's confusion, he elaborated. "Way I see it, today is as good a day as any. You can wash up at ours, if you'd like, beforehand. Win had the day off, so she surprised me with luncheon, and there's a bit leftover."

Morse nodded, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Oh! Alright, then, um...let me grab a change of clothes--"

Placing his hat atop his head, Fred opened the door, calling back, "Bring an overnight bag while you're at it. You're staying in Sam's old room. I'll go out and warm up the car."

Struck dumb by the sudden turn of events, Morse glanced upon the broken glass on the floor, and the horrendous bruising encircling his neck in the mirror, and snatched a small duffel from his closet.

He was more than happy to comply.

* * *

The ride over had been largely silent, not heavy with tension, but contemplative. Morse had a sense that the DI was giving him some space, as there'd be plenty of time to talk later. 

He was ever grateful for it, his headache just now dissipating.

Standing on the Thursday's stoop as Fred opened the door, duffel in hand and looking absolute _wretched_ , he hadn't really considered what had propelled him to accept his offer to begin with, when he was thoroughly embarrassed and fraught with anxiety over the decision to take up first their time, and now space in their modest home. Now, her husband hailing a greeting to inform her of his guest, did Win appear in the doorway, at first confused, but upon seeing Morse, her face lit up.

"Mrs. Thurs-- _Win_ ," he corrected. "It's...been too long."

As Win Thursday responded by wrapping her arms around him, however, warm and soft and reassuring as she squeezed him tightly, Morse realized maybe he had known the reason for his decision all along. He tried to ignore the niggling idea that maybe she was just lonely for her own children, for the version of her husband of several years' past before the troubles of the last year, and that he was only filling a void in her own soul, but as she drew back and cupped his face softly with her hand, rubbing a thumb gently over the apple of his cheek with a warm, genuine smile, he knew that he had truly been welcomed into their home.

"It has, Morse. You've been missed," she said honestly, her eyes crinkling in the corners. Here, Fred slipped out of the room quietly, and Endeavour caught a brief glimpse of a passing, unidentifiable emotion on Thursday's face as he had turned away, head down. It struck a chord of intense sadness within, and he wondered if Win's declaration was mutual.

_He_ had invited him, after all, but was it out of friendship, or duty?

Their work relationship had been ever strong, despite a few pitfalls after Joan had left, until relatively recently. What began as a shift in the foundation of their friendship widened into an almost irreparable chasm, but bridges had been newly constructed on both ends, however tentatively. What they had now was more than he could have hoped for only six months ago. Morse respected Thursday too much to give up, now.

Led inside, Fred then set him up with a spare towel and washcloth as the tea was put on, giving him a tour of upstairs. Morse thanked him graciously as the other man started down the staircase, then braved a deeply concerning thought, out loud.

"Sir, are we...are we _good?_ "

Pausing on the second step, Thursday turned towards him, hand on the railing and a quizzical look upon his face. Morse folded his arms across his chest awkwardly, towels in hand.

"It's just, after the past year, and all, we...we didn't always see eye to eye, and...and, well..." he paused in his stammering, not quite sure how to say the next part diplomatically. "I wasn't certain that I'd ever be welcomed back into your home again, is what I'm trying to say--"

Thursday backtracked towards Morse, dumbfounded by Endeavour's question. "Where on earth did you get that idea--?"

Shifting nervously did his bagman tug at his earlobe. "I just need to know that both of you want me here, and not just Win. I...I _just do_."

Fred flashed him a sad smile, and leaned against the wall heavily with a sigh. "Morse...just because we had a difference of opinion doesn't mean we stopped caring about you. Of course you're welcome in our home. When I saw the two of you downstairs, I realized what a nob I'd been to you both, and I never once considered that I'd been keeping you apart. She's fond of you, always had been," he spoke, before lowering his gaze. "There was a time after Joan left, that we _both_ held you partially responsible, in our own way, but it was _never_ your fault, and let's let bygones be bygones, I say. But, son, we never _hated_ you." Upon looking up, he noted that Morse's eyes were wet, but his lips were quirked in a smile.

"Thank you for that, sir. It...it means a lot." After several moments more, he then held up his bounty, motioning towards the shower. "I'll just..."

Fred smiled wide, calling back as he began once more down the stairs. "I reckon you've got ten minutes...or less!"

Endeavour shut the door behind him, dropping his things onto the sink. Taking a long look at himself in the mirror, he took in the heavy, discolored bruising mottling his skin, the blood-damaged eye, and the darkened bags beneath them. He felt as if he'd aged considerably in less than a week's time, lines having etched themselves into the corner of his eyes from lack of proper, quality sleep.

But, beneath it all, he felt lighter, calmer, and he came to the realization that for the first time in five days, he finally felt _safe_. There'd be much to discuss with his Guv'nor later, but for now, it was all Morse could have asked for.

He just hoped Brewer couldn't find him there, for the Thursdays' sake. He had _work_ to do.


	10. Asylum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse seeks safety with the Thursdays.

The hot shower was exactly what Morse needed, the billowing steam helping to clear his head and sober him up, at least somewhat. It was thoroughly relaxing and calming knowing that there wasn't an otherworldly being on the other side of the curtain, waiting for him. 

At least, he hoped for as much. 

Though he could have stayed in the sauna he'd made for at least another hour, Morse knew that tea was being served at that very moment, and he hated to come across as a rude guest since he believed himself an imposition, anyway. What _HAD_ Thursday told Win about all of this? She seemed non-plussed, but he also knew her to be the consummate hostess. In short, he'd never know.

Eventually turning the warm spray off with a sigh, he quickly towel-dried and made himself presentable, as if neither of the Thursdays had already seen the stray jetsam he'd portrayed himself to be on the doorstep not twenty minutes prior. 

That was then.

_This was now._

He caught a glimpse of himself in the fogged mirror as he exited, and leant in to make his unruly hair more presentable with a quick swipe of his hand across the steamed glass. Though he willed against it, Morse's gaze eventually flitted to the reflection of his damaged eye. Thursday had been right: the swelling had not gone down seemingly any since that awful day. The bloodied thing was as red as ever, and his eye socket still a blackened purple, instead of the faded mottling he'd come to expect by now. His neck, his arm...still fresh. Still _raw._

Breathing deeply, he quickly walked towel-clad to Sam's room to dress.

Pulling a cobalt jumper over his head, Endeavour realized he looked forward, for once, to the idle chatter the centered around the nucleus of the modern household: the kitchen table. He just hoped that when it came to his turn to speak, Thursday _listened._

* * *

By the time Morse joined them for tea, Fred thought a shower had done much to restore some color to the lad's pallor, and sobered him up in the process. He definitely appeared less on edge than he had been at his own house, but that could have been due to the change in scenery, as well. Morse had looked very near to passing out when he discovered the marks upon his neck, and Thursday was terrified for his bagman's well-being. The fantastical story he'd told...well, Fred simply didn't know what to think of it all, but he hoped to get some answers out of him a bit later, when they were alone.

He'd told Win the basics of what had happened to Morse at the Nick, so that his physical appearance didn't cause her more worry than it already would. The rest of the story, truth be told, he was only now learning, through a rather odd conversation with Strange just the day before concerning his visit. It had set the scene that _something_ out of the ordinary was going on with his recovering detective. Jim had told him about Morse's fears of not winning over the shrink in order to return to duty, but the little bit of time he'd spent with the lad today proved that Morse was _far_ from ready to jump into a case anytime soon.

As he pulled a series of wooden, hardbacked chairs from the dining table, Win's first and his own second as Endeavour slid into the third, Fred's mind drifted back to something Morse had said earlier. _'...just ask Max. He'll tell you.'_ Tell him _what_ , exactly? More of the same, or what might have _actually_ happened? He'd have to give Jakes a ring soon, too, though the next day seemed best, if he was as worse off as his drinking partner had been.

Fred only hoped that Morse soon received the help he so desperately needed, in whatever form it came.

No sooner had Win started pouring the tea did he find Morse studying him with that singular gaze of his, and he paused in its intensity as he doled out the biscuit plates. 

"Penny for them, Sir?" 

If Thursday was caught off-guard from being asked the same question he had been about to voice himself, then he hoped he schooled his features sufficiently. Besides, what good were years of having interrogation experience if someone caught his bluff at his _own_ kitchen table? He decided to play it light-handed, with Winifred present.

"Ah, just thinking how nice it is to have tea at a proper table for once, instead of in front of the telly as Win and I have been accustomed to as of late--"

If the stirring spoon Win had gone to set down upon the resting plate at that moment clattered a bit too loudly on purpose, Fred only hoped that Morse didn't notice. A surreptitious glance at the younger man quickly proved him wrong, because _of course_ his bagman had noticed. He stared so deeply into his teacup that Thursday had a thought to ask him what he had divined from the leaves within, but thought better of it.

It was no surprise his and Win's marriage had been on unstable ground for the better part of a year, though they were actively trying to gain better footing. _Together_ , albeit one shaky step at a time. 

Win turned to address their guest, ignoring any of Fred's subtle scowling.

"What about yourself, Morse? Have you seen any programs on the telly recently?"

Morse quirked the corner of his lips up into a wry smile. "I'm afraid not, Win. Haven't really gotten around to putting one in the new place, yet."

_Or ever_ , Thursday mused.

Win bit into a biscuit as he spoke, taking a sip of tea as she raised her eyebrows in surprise. "That's _right!_ You've your own place, now. How're you finding it?"

The younger detective had been halfway to raising his own cup to his lips when he stopped, and Thursday could see the minute change in his features as he thought of being back in that house. His eyes a bit rounder, and a slight tremor in his hand, Fred came to realize that something about that place was scaring the _hell_ out of the lad, and he stepped in before Morse had to answer.

"Oh, I imagine, it's a lot like our first place together, Win," Fred began, thinking how much it was absolutely _not_ the same. "More trouble than it's worth, isn't it, lad?" he continued, dropping his voice to be a bit softer, gaze trained unwavering on Morse. His detective sergeant swallowed heavily, eventually raising his eyes to meet Thursday's own, and Fred was nearly taken aback by how haunted he looked. 

"Sir," Morse agreed, swiftly downing half of his tea in one gulp, and Fred knew he was imagining it to be whisky.

He only then remembered the luncheon he'd promised earlier. "Win, I'd nearly forgotten! I told Morse you'd made luncheon earlier, if there's any left--"

Morse put his hand up abruptly. "Oh, please, don't trouble yourself! There's no need, really." He then held up a shortbread biscuit he'd been nibbling on. "This hangover isn't one of my finest moments. Toddler steps for now, I think."

Win laughed behind her napkin suddenly. "Oh, _Fred!_ Do you remember the first time we ended up drunk together? The week before our wedding?"

Thursday could tell that Morse had perked up at this, though his own ears tips were reddening at the long-forgotten recollection. "How could I forget? You ended up wearing that baby pink number--"

As Morse laughed aloud in surprise, Win reached over and slapped her husband playfully on the arm. " _Me?_ No, Fred, that was _you!_ "

Fred squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment with a groan, but not before seeing the joyful grins alight the faces of his companions.

It's all he could have asked for, really.

* * *

After tea, Win turned to address her husband as they all stood, respective dishes in hand. "I hadn't considered it, really, but I've been invited over by some of the ladies at work for Bridge Night, if you wouldn't mind. It's happening just around the corner, and I thought it might give you and Morse some...time."

Fred paused a moment in contemplation, his wife's intuition never failing to amaze him. A quick glance towards Morse noted an eagerness in the other's gaze that he had not been expecting. He then leaned over, giving her a peck on the cheek. "Of course I don't mind! Morse and I can make do for supper, you go and enjoy yourself, Win."

Heading towards the sink, Morse promptly took the dishes from her hand. "It's the least I can do," he smiled warmly, and set about rolling up his sleeves. If Win saw the horrendous bruising on his arm, she certainly didn't make mention of it, Fred noted. As Morse piled the dishes under the hot, running water, Fred followed Win to the hallway mirror as she straightened her hair prior to stepping out. She glanced down the hallway, listening to the clinking of ceramic. 

"Talk to him," she told her husband quietly. " _Please._ He's not well, Fred, though he tries to hide it, the poor lamb."

Fred swallowed thickly, nodding in agreement. "I will, love. I promise. Now go and have yourself an evening, and I'll see you later, alright? Don't worry about us."

Waving goodbye, Thursday shut the door behind him, wondering how on Earth he was going to broach any form of conversation with Morse. He didn't have to think on it long, for not moments later did Morse step from the kitchen and approach him in the hallway, arms crossed protectively.

"Sir...I need your help."

* * *

Both men entered into the living room, and sat aside one another on the well-worn couch. Morse still had not dropped his protective posturing.

"Sir, I need to put this behind me," Morse began almost immediately, and Thursday thought that no truer words had ever been spoken, "and I can only do so by solving the Brewer case. I mean, I...I need to _find_ Aidan Brewer."

Fred contemplated his detective sergeant seated next to him, his eyes shrewdly focused on the younger man who had begun to tap his foot nervously. 

"Why do you think that's the only way?"

Morse breathed deeply, closing his eyes as he spoke, as if afraid to see Thursday's reaction, or he was simply exhausted. "So I can sleep at night," he replied softly, "so... _this_ doesn't keep happening to me." He unfolded his arms and lightly placed a hand at the base of his neck, indicating the marks underneath the jumper.

Thursday chose his next words carefully. "To have peace of mind, you mean?"

"In a way, yes. Look, I know It's been a year, and I haven't been cleared to return yet, but..." Endeavour opened his eyes, pinning Thursday with one startlingly blue iris. "It's only going to get _worse. Please._ "

His bagman's voice cracking on that last word, Thursday searched him for any indication that all was not as it seemed, that this wasn't a clever ploy to return earlier than he needed to, that he was making this decision with his full mental capabilities intact. As it were, all Fred saw was a young man at his wit's end, pleading eyes hollow with exhaustion and unabated terror, trying his absolute damnedest to keep himself unharmed, and whole.

"You mean _he_ will, don't you? David Brewer?"

Morse closed his lids briefly, looking back at him through veiled, russet lashes. "Yes," he replied softly. "I do."

Contemplating how this scenario could shake itself out, Fred saw it as a win. Engage Morse with a cold case while his mind healed, and perhaps a year-old disappearance might be solved in the interim, all while redirecting his thoughts from the notion that a vengeful entity was attempting to harm him. As clever as the lad was, it was evident that the trauma extended well beyond his physical injuries, and his restless, forever calculating brain was having a difficult time processing just what had happened that day. 

To consider the alternative, that of Morse's reality, was unfathomable. 

"There's some parameters to discuss later, but I see no harm in working a cold case before you're cleared. Count me in."

Morse's entire body seemed to sag in relief, and even as his bagman was thanking him, Thursday hoped he hadn't just made one of the biggest mistakes of his career.

* * *

Hours after their talk, after the remnants of luncheon became a bachelor's supper, Morse found himself utterly exhausted. Thanking Thursday for everything once again, he retired to bed before Win even came home.  
  
For the first time in days did Endeavour truly _rest_ , safe in a home not his own.

  


* * *

_He found himself outside, along the riverbank, trudging through snow where the drifts had been the highest._

_It was the most likely place to find a body, on the banks._

_The others had left, or perhaps they had never even arrived, but regardless, he searched. Hours, maybe even days had passed in the blink of an eye, but still, Morse treaded carefully, hoping for any clue, no matter how insignificant it might seem._

_Eventually, he heard footsteps behind him, crunching swiftly through the snow. It instilled in him a sense of gut-clenching trepidation, though he didn't know why. He walked faster, stepping into deeper and more dangerous snow drifts as he continued on, but still the person behind him took two steps to his every one._

_"I can't go any faster," he called back, not wanting to slow his pace to see who was following so closely behind._

_The steps fell more swiftly yet, as if the person was running._

_"Just let me do my job," he pleaded, his heart thudding wildly with each crunch of snow from behind. The pace of the other increased two-fold._

_"Leave me alone!" he yelled aloud in frustration, his body subsumed by an intense anxiety, and he whipped around to face the other person._

_As he did so, a great weight collided with him, sending Morse sprawling onto his front, when a great pain tore across his back._

_Then, an all-consuming darkness descended, heralded by an erratic, rasping breath from atop him._

* * * 

It was around 4am when Win awoke abruptly, not from a particularly unpleasant dream, but from a _scream_ , coming from Sam's old room. Fred stirred beside her, but she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down towards the bed as he half-arose.

"It's alright, Fred, I've got him. Probably a bit of night terrors, I'd imagine," she explained to her husband.

Fred lay back down, blinking sleepily in the darkness. "Sure?"

"Yes, love, now go back to sleep. Won't take a moment."

Closing their bedroom door behind her, Win ventured into the hallway, instantly recalling those first few months after Fred had returned home from war. She doubted he remembered all of the times he'd awakened in a cold sweat, shouting and screaming at an enemy he'd left on foreign shores, and in trenches, long gone. She had always been there to comfort him, whether he recalled the specifics of the incidents, or not. While Morse's experience was of a vastly different nature, she was certain that it wasn't any less traumatic.

Standing before the closed door to the former room of her youngest, Win listened a brief moment before knocking quietly. She could discern that Morse was awake, his soft sobs emanating from behind the door. Her heart leapt into her throat in sorrow, and rapped a knuckle on the wood.

"Morse, luv? Is everything alright? I'm opening the door."

Turning the handle with a soft click, she pushed it open, a thin stream of moonlight cutting diagonally across the back of Morse's head. It wasn't much light, but it was enough to tell that the younger man was shaking as he moaned weakly. He lay on his front, covers pulled up to his shoulders, but his hands had fisted themselves within the bedsheets.

"What's happened, dear?" Win asked quietly, kneeling beside the bed. He turned slightly, so that he was facing her the best he could, his bright red eye wide and glassy with tears. A sad smile upon her face, Win reached out, gently pushing back the hair from his forehead. His skin was clammy, and even with the minimal light could she see that the light freckling on his cheeks stood out more prominently than usual.

_"Win?"_ he forced out breathlessly, his words clipped, terse. " _My back...something's w-wrong..._ " 

Immediately, she felt herself tense with worry, and then her fingers were wrapping around the pull-chain to the bedside lamp, jerking it down swiftly. He tucked his head under, away from the light, as she grabbed the covers about his shoulders and tugged them down as she held her breath.

Win then cried out with a horrified scream of her own.

* * *

Thursday had only just barely drifted back towards slumber when his wife's own shrill cry had him bolting upright, his legs swung off the bed and his bedside service piece cocked without a second thought. Fred quickly ran down the hallway where the door to Sam's room was wide open, and the bedside light on.

" _Oh, Fred!_ " Win sobbed aloud, holding one hand firmly across her mouth in sick horror, the other carding trembling fingers through Endeavour's hair in an effort to calm his erratic breaths. 

Lowering his gun instinctively, Fred looked aghast as his mouth fell open, his skin suddenly prickling with gooseflesh at the sight before him. His bagman lay on his stomach, shaking with shock, no doubt, the covers pulled down low to his waist, so that his back was visible.

As were the five gouges, jagged and deep, that traversed from the nape of his neck to just above the waistband of his sleeping trousers, his thin vest soaked with crimson and all but shredded.

It looked for all the world as if he'd been grazed by the claws of a wild animal, and Thursday's breath was stolen from him, his legs suddenly the consistency of gelatin. 

_"How did this happen?_ " Win asked through her tears, eyes wide as she looked to her husband for guidance.

Though he didn't want to admit it aloud, Fred _knew_ how. What Morse had suggested, was _real_. 

_All of it was real._

And it wouldn't stop until Morse was _dead._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I needed a day to not write, but to process "Oracle." There is SO MUCH to unpack.
> 
> SPOILERS, AHOY!
> 
> First, can I tell y'all how EXCITED I am that there was a supernatural slant to this episode? Those cards the researchers were using are called Zener Cards, and I SUCK at them.
> 
> Second, Fred and Win and those goddamned canaries. I laughed my ASS of at Thursday's delivery.
> 
> Third, I understand it has to happen, but I am NOT digging on the being negative to Morse energy coming from Fred/Strange/Win(!). WTF, Win.
> 
> Fourth, when Ludo is visiting Morse, and Strange is leaving and turns to Morse to say, "I didn't want to say anything in front of your mate, but...", I SWORE he was going to say something along the lines of, "If you're gay, that's cool, just tell your friend to not be so obvious." WOULD. HAVE. BET. MONEY. But, nope, Jim was being a dick for only the FIRST time this episode.
> 
> Fifth, I'm still trying to figure out the wallet thing.
> 
> And lastly, THE LOOK ON MORSE'S FACE at the end as it changes from portraying absolute, breathtaking LOVE to unadulterated fucking HEARTBREAK in five seconds flat was just THE WORST.
> 
> Okay. I'm done now.


	11. A Little More Open-Minded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse just wants a moment of peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a week it has been! Sorry for the delay, y'all, but between trying to find the newest episode and planning a Mardi Gras Party at my local pub, it has been cahhhhhrazyyyyy! The pacing on this one seemed a bit off to me, but maybe because I haven't really slept all week, I dunno. Thoughts about the episode? Hit me up in the comments!

" _During the day, I don't believe in ghosts.  
At night, I'm a little more open-minded._" -- Anonymous

_War, with its hacked limbs and lives similarly cut short._

_Murders, the gruesome taking of another's life._

_Suicides, all too soon._

Nothing, _nothing_ , could have prepared Fred Thursday for the scene before him. Not his years in the military, his experience as a Detective Inspector, nor even as a father of two could he have imagined he would know how to properly handle the situation as it appeared before him.

Morse lay bleeding, from wounds that scaled the entire length of his back, five in total. Fred needn't have checked his fingernails to know that he hadn't done it himself, as it would have been impossible, given the angle. 

_Someone had attacked Morse in his sleep, only no one had been in the house--_

"Fred," Win called to him, wide eyes fixated on the weapon in his hand, " _is there someone in our home?_ "

He tore his eyes from the shivering and prone form of his bagman to focus on his wife. "N-no," he stammered uncharacteristically. "No, I don't believe there is. I...I need to make a phone call..." Fred ignored Win's quizzical gaze as he walked over to the other side of the bed to kneel beside Morse. The detective had shifted around the best he could to look at him directly when he mentioned the phone call, eyes round with unspoken pleas. 

"Don't worry, son, I won't call for an ambulance," he promised, despite Win's surprised scoff. Hospital, he had quickly decided, was not the place to try and explain these injuries. Or any of those recently acquired by Morse, for that matter. "Have you taken your pain meds anytime in the last... _six_ hours?" he questioned, reading the bottle after scooping it off the nightstand.

Morse shook his head weakly, though positioned awkwardly. "N-No, I haven't..."

Thursday jerked his chin in a singular nod. "Good. Winifred, can you make sure he takes the correct dosage with some water while I'm downstairs? I won't be long, I promise."

"Of course, love, but...what on earth is going on? Do you know something you're not telling me?" She levelled him with a strength in her eyes that foretold disastrous consequences if he'd dare to lie to her face. So, Fred chose not to answer her at all. He instead laid a hand on Morse's trembling shoulder, and drew a deep breath.

"It's him, isn't it?" Thursday inquired quietly.

In response, Morse simply pressed his eyes shut tightly, expelling the tears gathered at the corners, and hummed a small noise of affirmation from the back of his throat. Fred then squeezed his shoulder gently, and stood fully as he exited the room.

His wife's concerned calls echoed down the staircase, and he found himself with no choice but to wait to explain everything in due time, after Morse was no longer in danger of slipping further into shock. Reaching the phone stand, he speedily dialed the rotary, heart thudding in anticipation as he awaited the familiar voice to pick up on the other end.   
Finally, he did so, and Thursday wasted no time.

"Dr. DeBryn, I'm so sorry, I know it's terribly late," Fred took a deep breath, steadying himself, "but..there's been an incident."

* * *

It was some time later when Max DeBryn arrived at the Thursdays' home, still and dark in the pre-dawn hours. He'd packed a bag as quickly as he could, and though Max was efficient, he still felt as if he was running far behind. Thursday had projected a calm that belied the panic within, Max knew this for certain, and the pathologist did his best not to speed over icy roads enroute to the Thursdays.

An accident would help no one.

Before he could even knock on the door was it opened abruptly for him. Fred Thursday wore an unreadable expression upon his face, his eyes a bit rounder, brow more pinched than usual. As he was ushered in, Max asked quietly of the Detective Inspector, "He's told you, hasn't he?"

Without even blinking did Fred hesitantly nod in the affirmative, and he suddenly looked more worn, sadder to DeBryn than he had in some time. "He's upstairs," was all he said, all too quietly in an oddly strained voice, "with Win..."

Max took the steps two at a time.

In the room closest to the landing could he hear Win's hushed tones murmuring quietly, not entirely loud enough to cover the sounds of Morse's soft moans. As DeBryn turned the corner, had the display of tenderness on behalf of Mrs. Thursday not halted him in his steps, then the shocking amount of blood soaking Endeavour's back would certainly have had the same effect.

Win sat upright on the bed, nearly parallel to where Morse was resting on his side, russet-curled head resting atop her lap as she calmly stroked the hair at his temples. He lay trembling, arms wrapped tightly around his torso, eyes pressed shut in obvious pain, and it was no wonder: his back was an absolute _mess_. 

Thankfully, however, the wounds did not look as deep as he had initially feared.

It didn't mean they wouldn't need stitching, however.

Mrs. Thursday looked up as Max entered, a watery smile twitching her cheeks. "Oh, Doctor DeBryn, we're so grateful you're here!"

"That I am, Mrs. Thursday. Morse." Stepping inside, he watched as his friend partially cracked open his left eye, and studied his reaction as he drew nearer. Placing the bag down at the side of the bed, Max leaned over to inspect the wounds. 

"What did this to him? N-no one was even in our house! How did this happen?"

DeBryn paused, meeting Win's inquiring gaze with his own. His usual eloquence left him as he found himself to be at a loss for words concerning the situation at hand. Thankfully, it was at that moment did Fred appear, holding out an outstretched hand towards his wife.

"C'mon, love, we'll let the doctor work--"

Win's eyes flashed with impatience at each of them in succession. "What aren't you telling me? You know something, all of you, and I've a right to--"

"I'll tell you everything, downstairs, Winifred. Please, just come with me. Let DeBryn see to Morse."

As Win stood up hesitantly, she carefully slid a pillow under Morse's head, and leant to plant a soft kiss atop his crown. "It'll be alright, dear, I promise," she told him ever so quietly, and exited with her husband, pulling the door partially shut behind her on the way out. Max breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that it needn't be he who had to act as the bearer of bad news.

_Just this once..._

"Morse," he began, "there'll be time for questions later, but I need to sterilize the wounds on your back first. Especially since we're not entirely certain how they got there." He paused, and swallowed thickly as Endeavour turned his head fully to look at him. "I'm afraid this is going to hurt. More than I think you realize. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Morse rapidly blinked wet lashes as the gravity of the situation set in, and with a clenched jaw did he give an understanding nod. "Yes...yes, I think so."

DeBryn then packed two towels lengthwise along the detective's torso, setting up his kit upon the nightstand prior to giving his hands a thorough scrubbing, all the while taking deep breaths through his own nose in preparation for what he was about to do. Firmly snapping a pair of gloves on, Max withdrew a pair of scissors, and split the fabric covering Morse's back in two, peeling it away as the injured man issued a soft hiss of pain. The pathologist then readied a large gauze with rubbing alcohol and pressed firmly down upon Endeavour's shoulder with his other hand.

"I'm so sorry, my friend," he apologized with the utmost sincerity, and when he glanced down, Morse's eyes were somewhere far, far away. Without another moment's hesitation, Max pressed the gauze down, holding him firmly as he did so.

As Morse arched his back sharply, ragged screams muffled by the pillow, DeBryn remembered with a singular clarity why he never went into emergency medicine.

* * *

To his credit, Morse didn't pass out, not once, though it would have been a small blessing had he done so. As Max finished his ministrations, Endeavour lay completely lax upon the mattress, wet eyes blown wide with pain. Even though the pathologist had warned him, not even a full dose of his pain meds could have prepared him for the searing heat lancing across the entirety of his back. Now his friend was preparing a syringe full of numbing medication that would mitigate the overwhelming burn and prep him for stitches. 

He barely flinched as the needle punctured his skin. He watched as Max eventually set down the empty vessel, and sat down gently on the bed beside him. "It'll be a few minutes yet before the topical takes effect," DeBryn explained quietly. "How're you feeling?"

Morse swallowed, working his throat as he tried to find the right words to describe his current state. "I'm scared, Max," he confided aloud, voice rough. "I dreamt that he'd followed me, at least, I think it was him. And then, I woke up..." He drew his gaze towards that of the doctor. "I wish I'd never gone back for that tea, I wish I'd never talked to him alone, I wish...I wish I knew how to stop this..." He felt a hand alight upon his upper arm.

"Let's worry about stitching you up first, hmm? There will be plenty of time for speculation later, though I'm not sure what good it will accomplish, my friend. Now," Max continued, "do you think you might be able to sit up? Might make this to a little quicker, if you're able."

Morse nodded, accepting DeBryn's assistance as he pushed himself up slowly, turning so that he sat next to him on the mattress. While most of the blood had been cleaned away, Morse wasn't aware of just how pale he appeared, and the real reason Max did not want to stitch him up while lying down.

It would have been too similar to sewing up a corpse.

As Endeavour adjusted himself for DeBryn, he could better hear the heated conversation taking place from downstairs. What tenuous truce the Thursdays had struck as of late was beginning to unravel, and he couldn't help but think himself responsible.

He closed his eyes, and instead focused on the needle stitching his rent flesh back together.

* * *

_"Just exactly what aren't you all telling me, Fred? What are you keeping secret from me?"_

_"Calm down, Win, I'm trying to tell you--"_

_"Then try harder!"_

Max swallowed uncomfortably, but luckily Morse seemed to have tuned out the arguing Thursdays, his breaths calm and measured as he laced the detective back together. The previous ordeal had taken a toll on his patient, and though he sat gripping the edge of the bed, Morse seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. 

It was for the best, really.

As quick and efficient as DeBryn was, it wasn't a job to be rushed, and he wanted nothing more than to leave the Thursdays to sort themselves out, to try and salvage what still could be saved. It was akin to listening to a burning shipwreck on the open sea, with the sailors onboard refusing to be the first one to jump.

_"So you brought him here, to our home--?"_

_"Winifred!"_

Max watched as Morse's shoulders, held tight with tension since he'd arrived, seemingly deflated in a singular, defeated exhale of breath. He then slumped forward, holding himself upright with arms braced across his thighs. At least he was no longer gripping the edge of the bed, Max surmised.

DeBryn arose slightly, stretching his arm out to give the door a final push before anymore unsettling feelings came to light.

"No," said Morse wearily, saddened eyes casting a thousand-yard stare onto the unadorned wall before him, "leave it. She's right. I should never have come here in the first place. How naive was I to assume..." He drifted off, brows furrowed in thought. Max snipped the thread, and placed the scissors down on the tray.

"To assume what, Morse?" he prompted gently. _That he'd be so readily accepted back in the Thursday's lives, after the strife of last year? Or perhaps that he'd found a temporary sanctuary, only to have that particular dream demolished so devastatingly?_

"That _he_ wouldn't find me here."

DeBryn pushed his kit aside, and scooted towards the edge of the bed so that he sat aside his friend. "My dear fellow," he began, placing a hand upon Morse's shoulder so that the detective turned to face him, "I ask this with all due seriousness, but...have you considered an exorcism?"

Predictably did Morse scoff at the suggestion, but it was his answer that surprised Max the most. "Honestly? _Yes_ , yes, I have. _Often_. But, what exactly do I exorcise? My home? The Nick? _Me?_ " He shook his head negatively, meeting Max's gaze. "Exorcisms are for demons, if you ascribe to that sort of thinking, which I don't, but this is different. I'm dealing with the...ghost of a grieving father, and who am I to call such a person, in life or death, a demon?" 

Max couldn't very well argue with that logic.

Elbows perched atop his knees, Morse tipped his head to rest within his palms with a sigh, taking care to not stretch out his back. "Besides," he finished, ever so quietly, the strained voices of the intermittently arguing Thursdays filtering through the crack in the door, "truthfully? I think an exorcism would only piss him off and make matters even worse."

Max dared not fathom how that would turn out.

In the distance, a door slammed, and Endeavour closed his eyes.

"Max?"

"Yes, Morse?"

"If it's not too much trouble, do you think you could drop me at my place on your way out? I don't think I'm welcome here, anymore."

Morse spoke these words with such a finality that clenched DeBryn's heart with an unnamed sorrow, and he gave his friend's shoulder a hearty squeeze. "I _could_ do that, Morse, but I'm afraid I _won't_."

Endeavour lifted his head, stunned by the pathologist's words.

"Why...why not? You have to pass my place to get to yours. I'd ask Thursday, but..."

Max's face softened into a slight smile, addressing Morse over the tops of his horn-rimmed frames.

"Because that's one more stop we needn't have to make. I thought you'd stay for a few days at mine, at least until your back is healed somewhat, or even longer, if you'd like. It's up to you."

Endeavour blinked owlishly at the pathologist. "You mean that? After everything that's happened... you're willing to invite me into your home?"

Max looked taken aback somewhat. "Why on earth wouldn't I?"

A shy smile briefly lit up Morse's features, and he ducked his head in acknowledgement. 

"Thank you."

Max then stood up, and began to gather his belongings. "Right, then. Shall we?"

* * *

After Win's dramatic exit did Fred find himself lacing up his own shoes with haste in an effort to chase after her, but stopped abruptly upon seeing DeBryn descending the staircase, an overly pale Morse in tow. His heart careened into the hollow of his gut.

"Morse--good God, I'm so sorry, lad. You weren't meant to be put in the middle of--" here he waved a hand towards the previously slammed door, " _all this_. I should have told Win earlier, but..."

He watched as Endeavour's eyes searched his own, lowering when they finally found his answer.

"But, you didn't know if you believed me, or not," the younger man finished.

Thursday grimaced, shoulders slumping. "I do now, for what it's worth. It's all a little bit out of our realms of understanding, is all. I'm just--I'm _sorry._ "

Nodding contemplatively, Morse then shrugged. 

"This hasn't been easy, for any of us, I expect. I understand, sir, truly, I do. I don't think of you any differently for it, either of you." He paused, looking up at Thursday with all due sincerity. "Can you give Mrs. Thursday my love? Tell her 'thank you' for me? I'll be, um, staying with Doctor DeBryn for a few days, while my back heals up."

Thursday nodded slowly at this, and tilted a head towards the door. "That...that'll be good, I think. Just in case," he let hang in the air between them, until Morse parroted his words.

"Just in case."

As they exited did DeBryn catch his eye briefly, but Fred hadn't time to decipher just what that could have meant. He was sure he'd find out soon enough. For the time being, it was nigh on 6am, and he had a Win to track down in the cresting daylight.

Just in time for the neighbors to see.

* * *

To DeBryn's relief, Morse passed out almost immediately upon lying down in the back seat of his Morris, his soft snores punctuating the ride home. 

Once they'd arrived, he barely stumbled to the guest room before collapsing onto his front, the medication in his bloodstream and the shock of his earlier ordeal taking their combined toll. Max shut the door behind him to give him his space, and as it were now Sunday, he fell asleep upon retiring to bed, as well.

They both slept until nearly noon.

* * *

Endeavour woke with a slight startle, recognizing that he wasn't in his own room, but acknowledging it as a new guest room altogether. 

_Max's. He was at Max's place._

He immediately regretted his decision to roll into his back, the wounds there still sore and stretched despite the careful dressings applied to keep them clean. Lying for a moment on his side as he evened out his breathing, Morse contemplated the series of events that led him to have occupied his friend's guest bed, wrapped in bandages with more stitches than he cared to consider from wounds he couldn't comprehend, aching and anxious and terrified, at noon on a Sunday.

At least, he imagined it to be Sunday. He wasn't sure of anything, not anymore. 

The past week had been one, long continuous fevered nightmare of a new reality, and he had no idea when it would ever end.

_If_ it ever ended.

Groaning softly, he stood up, swaying slightly as he exited the room, the door issuing a slight _creak_ upon opening. The subtle sound drew DeBryn's attention from where he sat in the dining room, and he arose upon hearing his guest.

"Come have some toast, Morse! I've just made some. Juice and tea, too, if you'd like..."

And so Morse, groggy and exhausted and utterly starving, sat down for a quiet brunch with Max.

* * *

It wasn't until hours later, after Endeavour had finally sorted himself out enough to resemble a human again, did he settle into a chair out back in Max's garden, letting the evening sunset wash its spectrum of muted reds and purples over him in the dimming winter light. Though it was cold, the chill felt soothing to his myriad of wounds, and with a fresh round of medication in his veins did Morse close his eyes, letting the calm relax his mind for however a brief moment as he was allowed.

"Morse?"

He realized he had drifted off for a few minutes when Max called out back, beckoning him inside. "If it's not too much trouble, would you mind coming in here for a moment? I don't want to leave our guests waiting."

Endeavour snapped alert instantly.

_Guests?_

"Wait, Max, what _guests?_ "

The pathologist had already stepped back inside as Morse rose from the table in a slight panic. 

"For the dinner party, of course!"

Endeavour halted in his movements, his face draining of colour.

" _Dinner party?_ "

"Come in from the cold, Morse!"

Tugging at his earlobe nervously did Morse step back into the dining room, and his mouth fell agape instantly. 

Around the small kitchen table sat Thursday and Strange, as Jakes leaned on the counter beside DeBryn, the face of the latter beaming with mischief. In the middle of the table lay a single, red folder. 

He found himself at a loss for words. "What...what is this?" he asked quietly, meeting each of their eyes in turn.

Thursday slid the file closer to Morse. "We heard you needed help with a cold case. If you'll have us."

For the first time in a week did something akin to hope blossom within Morse's soul.


	12. I Get By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The CID gathers to form a plan, but...will it work?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! It's the case fic part of the story!
> 
> SORT OF.
> 
> Hit me up about any 'Zenana' fEeLz in the comments!

_"I get by with a little help from my friends."_ \-- The Beatles

Settling down at the small, and now crowded, table did Morse place a bowl of DeBryn's proffered potato and leek soup before him. He was grateful not only for the absence of a multitude of _actual_ dinner party guests, but for those encircling the table alongside him. They _believed_ him, every one of them. It was more than he had dared hope for, not two days prior.

Though his back and head ached fiercely, the latest round of pain medication not having yet taken effect, he tried not to let it show to the others. Morse wanted nothing more at that moment than their presence. As he waited for his own soup to cool, he gingerly reached forward and took hold of the red file folder. For such a lightweight package, its contents definitely weighed heavily on his soul. Without opening it did he look up at those around the table with him, unsure as how to begin. Morse cleared his throat uneasily.

"I've...been thinking about what more could be done. What we haven't _yet_ done, or what we could do _again_. And I think the answer to that lies in the witness testimonies. I'd like to confirm what and who we have, and find more, if possible. _Somebody_ knows who took Aidan, just as sure as knowing that _somebody_ probably killed him. It's not the easiest realisation to come to terms with, but...I think it _is_ the reality..." he averted his eyes as he trailed off, swallowing with some difficulty around the sudden blockage in his throat, "and that's what I inadvertently told his father on the day he committed suicide." He heard a quiet gasp from someone within his quartet of colleagues, but could not discern whose. "I thought that perhaps my words had been the impotus--"

" _Morse!_ " scoffed Strange.

"--but, I've since absolved myself of that responsibility, for the sake of my own mental wellness." He huffed out what could have passed as a laugh, glancing up at his friends. "Fat lot of good it's done me." 

Morse then looked up fully, and met each of their eyes in turn, afraid of what he may find. "So...any thoughts?" 

Shifting in his chair, Jakes spoke first. "Hmm...I like it. We can't very well organize another search party given our current resources, and Bright, _er_ , Mr. Bright wouldn't go for that. But, this? Interviewing can easily be conducted while pursuing general enquiries for other cases."

Jim nodded in agreement. "He's right, it'd be the easiest way to add an interview here and there on the sly."

Max knew he had no say as to the protocol of the CID, but he joined the others in turning their attentions towards Thursday, who sat in contemplation, thumbnail rubbing a line under his lower lip in thought. Morse spoke after some time had passed. "And you, sir? What do you think?"

Fred's brow furrowed, and he eventually met Endeavour's gaze head-on, a sadness in his eyes. "I don't like it," he declared as Morse's heart plummeted in his chest, and the cavity soon felt hollow, _empty_. 

"Sir?" he broached hesitantly. "What...what don't you like--?"

Thursday sat upright, hands clasped together. "It's all too... _clandestine_ for my tastes. Why, we should be utilizing Mr. Bright as an ally, not keeping him in the dark about everything. No, no there's nothing else for it, really. Morse?"

Morse worked to keep his breathing even, the backs of his eyes burning with burgeoning tears of utter frustration as his plan, his _only_ plan, began to totter and collapse before him. His throat constricting, he uttered, "Sir?"

"You'll need to be re-instated properly, so that there aren't any legal violations, should we proceed to a trial. We need any and all evidence to be admissible, when the time comes, and this is the only way to go about it, and that's by the book. What say you, Morse?" Thursday leaned back with a cocked eyebrow, arms folded across his chest. "Passing your psych exam. Do you think it's possible?"

_NO._

"Yes," he confirmed without the hesitation he desperately wanted to cling to, because in all honesty, _what other choice had he?_ "I..." he paused to rub a hand at his forehead, needing not to consider the alternative, " _yes_ , if need be. But...what if things begin to happen? What if it affects my work?" He chuffed in disbelief. "They'll have me committed, I reckon, to Bellevue..."

DeBryn spoke before Thursday could do so. "That's a bridge to cross only if needed, Morse. Once you're brought back on, it'll be easier to conduct business properly, like Thursday said. Though, in the meantime I suppose it wouldn't hurt if he perused the file and made a plan, would it, Inspector?" Max queried, looking at Thursday over the top of his frames.

Eyebrows quirked high, Fred responded with, "I see no harm, that's why I brought it over. I'd like for you to make a list for us to divvy in the meanwhile, who to re-assess, or any new information you may find in there. We'll take care of what we can, until you return."

Morse furrowed his brow, as all either nodded or voiced their confirmation. "Alright. But, when you say 'meanwhile,' how much time have I got? Before this test?"

"Usually takes a day or two after to sort all the paperwork," Thursday declared, "and I'd prefer you were healed from this, ah, _last bit_ , but I can request desk duty for as long as need be. How does Tuesday sound?"

_The day after tomorrow..._

"Alright," Morse agreed, a near-overwhelming panic thrumming through his veins. "Tuesday, it is."

Long grown cold, he ate a spoonful of DeBryn's soup, and tasted absolutely _nothing_ of it.

* * *

After the visiting detectives had finished their meals and spoke more of strategizing, Strange and Jakes were the first to leave, Morse saying his goodbyes and gratitudes as Max stayed in the kitchen to tidy up. Fred seized his opportunity, catching his bagman alone at the door. "Lad...I want to apologize, for what I'm certain you heard between Win and myself earlier."

Endeavour shook his head as he rubbed at his neck, suddenly embarrassed. "There's no need, really--"

"Yes, there is, " Thursday declared with finality, and so Morse listened. "Win was, well, she was _scared_ , but she'll never admit to it. It's a bit much to comprehend, really. Scared _for_ you, and scared--"

"-- _of_ me?" Morse voiced quietly, eyes askance. 

"--of whatever had you screaming _bloody murder_ in the middle of the night!" Fred softened his tone at seeing Morse's wince. "I'm sorry, lad, we didn't mean to drive you away from our home, but I'm glad you've decided to stay away from your place, if only for a few days, that's all. There's something else..."

At this did Morse sit down upon DeBryn's sofa, suddenly exhausted beyond his capabilities. "What's that?"

Fred made certain he had Morse's attention before continuing. "I was going to let you work, off the record, initially. But, while yes, it's easier to not have to lie to Mr. Bright, I also hadn't considered until this evening that this case would ever actually be solved."

He noted Morse's frown at those words, his fingers moving to nervously tug at an earlobe. "But, then I realized that was an idiotic thought on my behalf, and that I should give my detectives credit where credit is due, really. You all are a bright lot, and I trust you to find Aidan, if you're smart about it. And you will be."

Endeavour's tired brain jumbled the whole of his racing thoughts into a single, convoluted mess of words and half-sentences, and all that could be voiced was, "What if we _don't?_ " This he inquired in a voice smaller than usual, eyes both blue and red pleading openly for answers that Thursday didn't have.

Fred sighed heavily, unsure how to answer such a weighty query. "Honestly, son? I have no idea. But, you'll never know if you don't at least try."

As Morse smiled half-heartedly in response, Thursday knew on some level what he must have been thinking. 

_Would trying be good enough for David Brewer?_

He hoped, for Morse's sake, that it was.

* * *

As Max finished setting his kitchen back into a semblance of order, he wiped his hands dry upon a linen towel, and stepped into his living room to offer Morse a cup of tea.

In the ten or so minutes since he'd heard Thursday depart, Morse had taken it upon himself to fall fast asleep, and so DeBryn let the slumbering detective rest upright on the sofa, until he turned in, hours later. Without a word did Endeavour crawl into the guest bed, and was again asleep within moments.

Max hoped he stayed that way through to the night.

* * *

The next day did Morse rest intermittently, reading through the Brewer folder front to back _twice_ before settling on a course of action. Pen in hand, he scribbled down a myriad of thoughts atop a lined notebook Max had lent him, and his head was the clearest that it had been in days. He tried to think on tomorrow's exam as little as possible, and found enough work to keep him mentally stimulated.

Frequent naps throughout the day assisted in his recovery, as well.

After Max returned home that evening, the detective spent some time bouncing ideas off of the pathologist, who was more than eager to assist. After a light dinner did Morse retire for the evening, still catching up on several days worth of lost sleep.

That evening, he dreamt. 

* * *

_Morse stood on the riverbank as he had a year prior, the snow still present, but thawing at a considerable rate as he stood there, surveying the water, the foliage, everything and everywhere in the vicinity for Aidan._

_He was alone, save for the winter birds flying over him in an uneven 'V'-shaped formation._

_Not even nature was perfect._

_Across the riverbank did he detect a slight movement, and he looked up fully. There, standing directly opposite him, mirroring his stance, stood David Brewer. It was the first time Morse had really seen his face, twisted and disfigured as it was._

_A violent shudder rippled through his frame._

_Morse turned away and began to survey along the bank, as did David. The malformed man took a step for each of the detective's own, until Brewer began to outright mimic each of his own movements._

_And thus did each of them continue in silence, searching for Aidan, until Morse was interrupted by his alarm._

Taking a deep, relaxing breath did Endeavour cautiously sit upright in bed, and realized that no injuries had befallen him that morning. With a small sob of disbelief did he dare smile, running a hand over his face in relief.

Maybe this could work, after all.


	13. Fake It 'til You Make It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse's appointment with the Thames Valley psychiatrist doesn't exactly go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in a week?
> 
> whale.
> 
> Whale.
> 
> WHALE.

After spending a week avoiding the mirror, Morse stood before the one in Max's home, and took a long, measured look at his appearance.

It would be what the station psychiatrist also saw, after all.

His buttoned collar, complete with Windsor-knotted emerald tie, hid the bruising around his neck, as did his black suit jacket sleeves in covering the fading marks on his arms. A fresh layer of gauze ensured that his starched shirt wouldn't aggravate the healing sutures running the length of his back, the wounds still stiff and raw. It served as an excellent reminder not to slouch, though it was decided that the shirt fabric should be black, too, just in case.

Endeavour needed to present himself as the epitome of mental and physical wellness, regardless of the truth. He was bereft of alternatives, really, should he ever hope to solve Aidan's disappearance, or to find piece of mind again, as if the decision were actually up to him. And so with a final combing of his hair did he release a long, nervously held breath, his focus on the fading bruise around his left eye socket and the not-yet-entirely cornflower blue iris within, and decided his appearance was as good as it was going to get.

Morse hoped it was enough.

* * *

Walking into Castle Gate felt surreal to Morse, even more so than when he had first did so months prior. Though he had been reinstated as a Detective Sergeant since then, it felt no less ominous. 

He longed to return to the quiet darkness of the old Cowley station, though his colleagues relished the modernism of the new, decade-appropriate structure, and his opinion proved to be an unpopular one.

As so very many of his were.

Today was not to be a day of reflection, however, but of moving forward. Morse only hoped the station psychiatrist felt the same as the rest of the CID. He had initially thought to make an appearance with his coworkers first in order to hand over any information he'd found thus far, as had been requested, but Morse decided the last thing he needed was a series of well-meaning, yet nerve-wracking pep talks intended to cheer him on. DeBryn had attempted to do so earlier that morning, but stopped upon witnessing Endeavour's tight-lipped smile.

_"Don't worry about--well, just come see me when you're finished, if you have the time, hmm?"_

As much as a hearty 'thank you' to DeBryn at the Radcliffe would be very much in order after his appointment, so would a scotch or two at the local pub, Morse concluded. If he stayed there long enough, then perhaps Max could meet him after shift--

_No. No, there was work to be done._

As he continued through the hallways, going the long way 'round to avoid a certain interrogation room, did Morse take a deep breath to steel himself for his visit. He was lucky to have not yet run into anybody who would have recognized him to have been gone, though curious glances in his direction by a variety of PCs and WPCs confirmed that certainly would everybody have known what had happened.

A dawning look of recognition by a lone patrolman in passing caused Endeavour to avert his gaze quickly, lest an uncomfortable conversation ensue. Turning his head completely to the right did he feign looking into an empty office as he passed by, pleading that the PC continued on.

In doing so, he inadvertently locked gazes with the contorted countenance of David Brewer, sitting in the dim lighting behind the desk within as if he worked there.

_Just another day at the office._

A hand flew to Morse's mouth to stifle the startled cry that begged to be voiced aloud.

It would have most certainly drawn the young PC's attention, for sure.

An alarming note of sheer terror rang shrilly in his ears as his raised hand fell numbly to his side, and backing up subconsciously did Morse's back strike the other side of the hallway, his legs threatening to give way as he stared into the single eye that remained.

_"Please_ ," the detective pleaded softly, "I'm _trying..._!"

Brewer's apparition didn't so much as blink. Morse wondered fleetingly if that were even possible, when a firm hand landed on his shoulder, and he very nearly screamed--

A quick glance proved it to only be Peter Jakes, his dark eyes searching for Morse's cause of consternation. The russet-haired detective released a loud, shuddering breath instead, eyes perfectly round as they looked from Peter, back towards the office, and then to Jakes again.

Brewer was gone.

"Wotcher, Morse..." Jakes greeted with concern, and Endeavour watched as the other's eyes darted from the office, to behind them both, and back to his own again. "You alright, mate?" he questioned quietly.

"You don't...you didn't see him? Brewer?" Morse inquired conspiratorially of his friend, blue eyes drawn back to the empty room, searching the interior with scrutiny from where he stood. He felt no reason to venture closer.

Jakes shook his head negatively, his own brow furrowing as he, too, looked back into the room. Only a lone office chair behind a standard wooden table was visible. "No, I didn't. Is he still there?"

Morse shook his head repeatedly. "No....he's--no."

"Did he _do_ or _say_ anything--?"

"No, Jakes, he didn't, he just... _stared_. I can't..." At this did Endeavour press off from his slumped position against the wall, and began to pace in tight circles. "I can't do this, Peter," he began, rubbing a hand across his face as the rising panic bubbled up from within. 

Peter reached out and grabbed at both his shoulders, attempting to manoeuvre him out of the direct pathway of those traversing the hallway. They, leastways Morse, were beginning to draw unwanted attention. The dark-haired detective firmly held Morse in one position, eyes flashing with an unnamed threat at any who dared to pause in their steps.

"You're on your way to see the shrink, right?" Peter asked, releasing his hold on the skittish detective.

Morse paused. "Yes, but--"

"Well," Jakes said, turning his back to Morse as he motioned with a wave of his hand to follow, "Come on, then!"

Snapping him out of his panicked state did Endeavour follow.

* * *

Before he knew it was Morse being firmly pushed through the police psychiatrist's open office door, and he turned just in time to see Jakes' nod of encouragement before pulling the door with finality behind him, effectively trapping Morse within.

Endeavour _seethed_.

It was _exactly_ the push he needed.

Now Morse stood awkwardly before the austere medical professional before him, who arched a single greying eyebrow at the detective's sudden presence. "I didn't think you were coming," was all Dr. Hinson said in greeting, glancing first at the clock above him on the wall, then to his appointment book laid open upon his desk, "Detective Sergeant Morse."

Considering what had just occurred, Morse was impressed to find himself _only_ four minutes late, though it was apparently four _too_ many by Hinson's reaction. 

Dr. Hinson motioned to the chair opposite his own behind the desk, and Morse sat nervously with a nod and a crooked smile as he attempted to act casually, alternating between sitting upright and rigid, to slouching with indifference.

_Oh, sod it._

Hunching over in his seat did Morse sit with his legs apart, arms resting atop his thighs with hands clasped. As uncomfortable as this was going to be, he felt he was allowed to at least get cozy.

"Well, now," Hinson declared after Morse had finally gotten settled, leaning over into his desk with steepled arms and mimicking the detective's clasped hand posture, "shall we begin?"

_As if he had a choice._

* * *

Jim Strange watched as Jakes returned to his desk with a pained look, stopping to fish out a smoke from his pack before committing to sitting down. He grew agitated as the single cigarette failed to shake itself from the rectangular box, jostling it with more force than necessary until the desired object came tumbling out, eventually. He then watched as it took no less than four attempts to light the damned thing, Jakes' ire threatening to destroy the small lighter with each go. Finally, a long draw was inhaled, and just in time, it seemed.

"What's going on with you, then?" Jim asked.

Exhaling a long, high plume of smoke did Peter turn to the brunette detective, slightly startled. He then moved to sit on the edge of his desk, voice low though no one sat in their immediate vicinity. "Just ran into Morse in the hallway. He reckons he saw Brewer in an empty room, just sitting in a chair, watching him." 

Strange felt an icy cold creep across the back of his shoulders, and he froze accordingly. "What, _here?!_ At the nick?"

Jakes inhaled again with a nod. "Yep. Just now."

"Where's he now?" Strange asked, looking around as if either Brewer or Morse were around the corner.

Peter looked over at Strange, a small blush spreading across his cheeks. "With the shrink."

_May Morse have mercy on his soul..._

At this revelation did Jim sink back into his chair, a hand running through the locks atop his crown. "Oh, _no_."

Peter looked away, and took a third drag on his smoke, foot tapping atop the tile nervously. Though one was being withdrawn from his lips at that very moment, Jakes came to the conclusion that he _desperately_ needed another cigarette.

* * *

"And your childhood...a happy life at home, was it?"

Endeavour paused measuredly before responding. _He'd anticipated this..._

"Not the most memorable, but others had worse, I'd imagine."

_He vowed to find another sentence that could have rivaled that one for understatement of the year._

"I understand your parents divorced early on...was it a difficult transition?"

Morse took an even breath, announcing, "On occasion."

_Ah. There it was._

Dr. Hinson scribbled down a few more obscured notes, and Morse tried not to think too much on what they might be. He then flipped through a file with labeling Morse couldn't decipher, reading a few paragraphs to himself for several taut moments before addressing Endeavour once more.

"As I understand, the child you sought...Aidan. He came from a broken home, too, did he not?"

Morse stared back at the doctor, his face neutral.

_What?_

"Ah, yes, he did, but I don't--"

Hinson forged on. "Do you believe your actions, during the fatal altercation with David Brewer, were in any way influenced by you having had a similar experience in your youth, that is to say, coming from a single-parent home?"

With his heart rate rising and mouth suddenly dry, did Morse lean back into his chair, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck anxiously. "N-No...I'm sorry, but I'm not exactly following--" 

Hinson leaned forward once again, pinning Morse with only his steely gaze. "When you mentioned to Mr. Brewer that drawing a loaded weapon in a police station was 'suicide,' was it as a _warning_ or as a _suggestion_ \--?"

Endeavour's jaw dropped in absolute shock, and he gripped the armrests of his chair with white-tipped knuckles.

"How _dare you_ \--"

"Answer the question, Mr. Morse."

At this did Endeavour stand suddenly, shaking his head furiously as he made towards the door. "I didn't come here to be _interrogated_ \--"

"You'll answer me if you wish to remain here at Thames Valley in an official capacity, Detective Sergeant," Hinson's voice declared coolly. 

A sob threatened to rip from his lungs as Morse came to the realization how quickly everything was beginning to spiral in a rapid descent, and that no amount of preparation could have assisted him in this line of questioning. This was his only chance, and his last one, at that. Hand falling away from the brushed nickel-plated doorknob did Endeavour turn towards the psychiatrist, who only continued to stare at him with a collected calmness that bespoke of the dozens of times he'd had this reaction from those hapless enough to cross his threshold.

"You think I haven't asked myself dozens of times in the spanse of a single week whether or not I influenced Brewer's actions?" he replied with a dangerous, quiet calm. "Do you think I haven't considered myself _lucky_ that he decided to shoot himself, instead? That was what he had come here for, after all: to _murder me._ I wasn't trying to, to save _myself_ , I was trying to help _him_! I wanted him to find closure, to move on with his life, but it's now apparent that he didn't know how to do that. Not constructively, anyway. I'm...I'm a _good_ detective, and I just want to _help_ people. But, some people can't be saved, and I'll not have that resting on my shoulders when at least I _tried_. None of this, not his final act, nor his decision to _beat me_ had anything to do with anybody's childhood, or upbringing, only the _desperate_ act of a father at the end of his rope who knew _little_ else aside from lashing out and blaming others because he'd already blamed _himself_ as much as one could. So, no, Dr. Hinson, I didn't suggest to a grieving father that he kill himself, and you should be ashamed of yourself for even suggesting as much."

Tears ran freely down Morse's heated cheeks, but he found that he couldn't have cared less.

Hinson sat expressionless, his visage one of utter indifference.

Morse wanted to punch him directly in the center of it.

"Alright, then, DS Morse, why don't you take a few moments to straighten yourself out in the men's room, and come back in five, hmm?"

Endeavour fled without another word.

* * *

Peter was on his fourth cigarette of the hour when he heard Jim Strange quietly utter, " _Bollocks._ " Looking up from his desk, he soon wished he hadn't.

To put it simply, Morse had been put through the ringer, if his pale face and red-rimmed eyes could tell their own story. Jakes had needed to visit Hinson after the Blenheim Vale fiasco, and he'd sooner have a frontal lobotomy than visit that man ever again. Coppers being coppers would just as soon act their way through a psychiatric evaluation than give honest, truthful answers, so Hinson long ago made it his business to force the _true_ feelings out through sheer stress. 

He ought to be committed, Jakes rather thought.

Standing up as Morse approached, his expression unreadable, Peter offered, "An absolute rotten bastard, isn't he?"

Morse let loose a watery laugh, nodding in agreement. "I really don't want to talk about it, but, yeah. Yeah, he is."

Peter saw Jim open his mouth to no doubt ask the pertinent question, but before he could do so did Thursday come into the room, eyeing the emotionally exhausted young man before him.

"Well, Morse...what's the prognosis?"

Morse cleared his throat, and moved to pull a tri-folded piece of paper from his suit pocket. "I don't know how," he admitted, presenting the paper for all to see, "but I've been cleared."

A collective breath of relief was exhaled by those present in the room, to which Morse smiled before withdrawing another set of papers, lined and with his familiar handwriting.

"That's wonderful news, indeed! We knew you'd come through, alright," Thursday declared, and Morse realised that the only person who had doubted so had been _himself_. "I'll inquire of Mr. Bright about your return date when he's back this afternoon, but I'd like to see what else you've brought us, in the meantime."

"Right," Morse began, handing each present a copy. "Here's what I've been working on these past two days..."

Unbeknownst to them all was a fifth individual present, standing in a dark corner from far across the room, watching the proceedings with interest.

Had Morse been more attuned to the energy of their space, and not been so emotionally depleted, he may have felt the hair at the base of his neck prickle and stand at attention, as it often did when David was present. As it happened, he was not.

The next time, he'd make certain that he had Endeavour's attention.

David would not be ignored again.


	14. One Step Forward, One Step Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thames Valley's CID gets to work, and the day ends with a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything will start being pulled together in the next chapter, but I still haven't got a final installment total, so it'll still be truckin' along for awhile, yet.

Prior to Mr. Bright's return that afternoon did the men of CID review the certainties of the Aidan Brewer case that lay within the red file folder. In turn did Morse withdraw the papers within, arranging them on the board as he walked them back through the case. While the trail had grown cold, he believed there was still time to retrace it, and find where it had all ended for Aidan.

The child had disappeared on his birthday, though there had never been an established link between the _why_ and the _when_ of the possible abduction, if that's what had in fact occurred. 

The Brewers had spent the day walking along the river, a pleasant enough one with plenty of sunshine, though it had been mid-winter. After his son had grown tired after some time did David walk him back to his vehicle, placing the child on the sidewalk as he walked over to the passenger side door, leaning into the small car in order to ready Aidan's car seat. By the time he had circled back towards the sidewalk was the young child _gone_.

Not two minutes had passed, in total.

There'd been no witnesses near his parked vehicle to have seen them return, though a corner shop owner down the block reported that David had run inside, in quite the panic, asking if a small, blonde boy had been seen walking past the establishment. He had not, and no one would report having seen him ever again.

The next step was to formulate a plan to best divide the list of previous witnesses amongst themselves. While there had been around half a dozen witnesses to have seen Aidan in the days before his disappearance, there'd only been two main suspects throughout the whole affair, and David had been one of them. Long out of the picture, and absent from the area, David's divorced wife had only briefly been considered. 

When interviewed by her local constabulary, she hadn't even been aware of her son's recent birthday.

Instead, a man by the name of Edward Siddall was the other favoured suspect. 

He'd been the last known person to see Aidan alive, walking with his father that day, and had admitted to striking up a conversation with the elder Brewer, confirmed at the time by David himself. _"I remember that bloke," Brewer had told both Morse and Strange at the time. "Odd sod, if you ask me. Followed us for a bit on the towpath with a camera 'round his neck. Asked to take a photo of Aidan."_

_"And why was that, exactly? What did he want with a photo? " Morse had once asked of him. Brewer shook his head. "Said Aidan reminded him of his grandson, who'd passed away a couple years back. I thought he was a nutter, and told him to fuck right off. Looked like I broke his heart, it did, but you can never be too careful these days, you know?"_

During the subsequent interview, the aged Edward Siddall exhibited a pronounced sadness when his grandson was mentioned. _"I was out playing around with my camera, and I just thought...I thought I might take a picture, if only to pretend it was Charlie. But his da', well, he didn't like that idea very much. At the time I thought him rude, but he had every right. Didn't know me from Adam, did he?"_

And so did the detectives of the Thames Valley Police Department pin the pertinent information to the corkboard for all to see, and Morse hoped David took note of it, as well.

Picking up a sheet of Endeavour's handwritten notes did Strange tick off the names on each list mentally, clearly recalling some of them, but not others. "Any thoughts on how best to go about this?" he addressed the group.

Glancing over Jim's shoulder, Thursday took stock of the names present. "We'd be best to divide and conquer, as suggested, I'd rather think," Fred posited before glancing up at his bagman, "and the more the merrier once Morse gets the go-ahead from Mr. Bright."

Morse nodded only once to express his understanding. 

"Start by calling the witnesses," Fred continued, "see if any of them have had their memory jogged in the past year. I don't think he's our man, but I'll plan on Morse and myself giving Edward Siddall a visit in the next few days, soon as--"

"Soon as what, Thursday?"

From behind them spoke Mr. Bright, his high and tight voice silencing them all. Behind his eyeglasses did he look amongst the group, to the evidence board, and then to Morse directly. Endeavour was relieved to find a warm smile upon the Chief Inspector's face.

"Morse!" he declared in surprise. "I wasn't expecting that you'd be back with us so soon," he announced, a pointed look in Thursday's direction. "You've been cleared by Dr. Hinson, I take it?"

Morse's lips parted to speak, but it was Thursday's voice that rang out instead. "He has, Mr. Bright, and I was just telling him that pending your approval, that I'd be able to set him up with some light desk work sooner than later, for the time being."

Reginald glanced again from Thursday to the evidence board with sharp eyes, taking a few steps towards it as both Strange and Jakes exchanged looks of concern. "Is this the 'light desk work' you had in mind then, Thursday? Reopening the Aidan Brewer case?" 

This time it was Morse who spoke in lieu of his guv'nor, his frayed nerves getting the best of him. "It was my idea, Mr. Bright. I thought that..." _That if we solved his son's disappearance , then his vengeful, deceased father would stop terrorizing me--_ "Well, I thought it couldn't hurt to give it a once over, to get my mind back on track, while our workload remained fairly light. Sir. If it's alright with you, of course." 

Mr. Bright studied Morse with intense contemplation for far too long, and the younger detective tried not to wither under his scrutinizing and shrewd gaze. "Well," he concluded, "I don't see the harm. Take care not to overextend yourself, and it's good to have you back, Detective Sergeant Morse."

Endeavour could have hugged the man.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Bright."

With a nod and declaration to "Carry on, then," did Reginald take his leave, the CID relaxing somewhat with his departure, none more so than Morse.

An incredible lightness invigorated his soul, knowing that the team could now be free to do what they did best: solve this case.

* * *

After several hours of phone calls did the trio of detective sergeants come to the conclusion that their ancillary witnesses would add nothing further to the investigation. Responses garnered ran the gamut from sympathetic to downright rude, as Jakes discovered before slamming the phone down in frustration. Still in mid-conversation did Jim shoot him an annoyed glare, to which Peter rolled his eyes in response.

Placing his own receiver back into the cradle, Morse called out quietly to Jakes. "Everything alright, then?" he broached with caution, full well anticipating the answer. 

The dark-haired detective stood, lighting a cigarette enroute to perch on the edge of Morse's desk. "No," he declared abruptly, "it certainly isn't. Why are people such a... _hassle?_ "

Morse had to crack a smile at that, eyebrows raised. "You're asking _me?_ " he questioned his colleague in jest. "I can see that your witnesses are proving to be about as helpful as mine have been, that is to say, not in the _least_."

Peter chuffed, exhaling a ring of smoke as he did so. "You've got that right." His sentence was punctuated with the slamming of Strange's own phone, swiveling around to raise a cocked eyebrow at the younger man. With a huff did Jim arise from his chair, a pointed look at the clock. It was nearly luncheon.

"Pub?" Jim declared, too frustrated by his last conversation for further words. 

Peter was reaching for his own jacket before Jim had to ask twice. "Morse, you coming?"

Endeavour shook his head in deferral. "Go on without me. I told DeBryn I'd drop by in a bit to see him, but I'll see you all--"

"Tomorrow," Thursday finished, stepping from his office. Before his sergeant could protest, he clarified, "Half-days until the end of the week, but I'll run you by the Radcliffe if you've business there this afternoon. Bright's recommendation."

"Sir," Morse acquiesced, standing to gather his own belongings, a nod of gratitude to his colleagues before heading out.

Half-days or not, it was a start.

* * *

Morse's brief visit with DeBryn ended up last over an hour, long enough to grab a bite in the hospital cafeteria as he relayed the news of his getting to return to work. The pathologist was pleased, and apologized for not warning him of Hinson earlier.

_"Had I have told you earlier, you wouldn't have ever gone," Max told him honestly._

_Morse agreed._

Afterwards they retired to DeBryn's office, where Endeavour took the time to thank him properly for all of his help. Or, at least tried to, anyhow.

"Max, please, let me make it up to you--"

With a smile and a wave did DeBryn gently dismiss his friend, declaring it all "quite unnecessary." Before leaving, however, did he ask, "Might I ask how the case is coming along?"

The crestfallen look upon Morse's countenance spoke volumes, and DeBryn bid him farewell.

He would ask again, but later.

* * *

Only after exiting the windowless cavern of the Radcliffe's morgue did Morse come to realize how late he'd inadvertently stayed, thankful Thursday had insisted on his borrowing a take-home car for the evening. Stopping briefly by Max's place did he pack his bag he'd arrived with just days prior, eager to return home to his own space once again, now that there was work to be done.

It was fully dusk when he finally arrived, exhausted and spent in all ways possible. He hadn't thought to turn a light before fleeing into the night last Saturday past, and struggled a bit with getting the key into its hole as the darkness encroached. Once inside, he shut the door behind him with a sigh, dropping his bag and borrowed caseload into a pile on the floor for the time being.

Fumbling in the dark for the lamp's chain did he finally retrieve it, tugging at it to illuminate the immediate vicinity with a soft, yellow light.

Before him loomed the restless spirit of David Brewer.

With a startled gasp did Endeavour flinch violently, Brewer's spectre but an arm's length away. It was the closest he'd dare to present himself, and his grotesquely twisted features were just as Morse had remembered, a harrowing vision straight from his darkest nightmares. David was as solid in appearance as he had been on his final day in existence, only his remaining eye was not at all as Morse recalled it, once a hazel orb rotating wildly in its socket, seeking out the traumatized detective as would a dying beacon from a decaying and crumbling lighthouse.

In its place was a flaming ember of righteous anger, coal black and flickering in its intensity, focused solely on _him_.

Lost in the fiery depths of the hellacious eye, Endeavour's form _vibrated_ with an all-consuming dread. Somehow, he managed to find his voice, and though it was tremulous, his indignation was thinly-veiled.

 _"What do you want from me?!"_ he cried out in exasperation, fully realizing he was losing his temper with the ghost of a dead man. "I can't _help you_ , not _like this!_ For the love of your son, please _leave me alone_ and _let me do my job!_ "

No sooner had the words left his lips did the table lamp's lightbulb explode with a hissing _POP_ , shattered glass shards flying out in a circular radius, and the room was suddenly plunged into total darkness. 

Morse cried out in shock, the sound of the thin glass tinkling onto the table and tiled entryway permeating the air. As they came to rest, the harshness of his own ragged breathing filled the surroundings, and was soon joined by Brewer's gurgling, sucking breaths, the last sounds he would ever make in life before passing on.

A frigid palm then roughly cupped Endeavour's jaw with icy fingers, and the terrified detective's breath stuttered sharply with a sick moan before he fainted with fright into a heap onto the carpeted floor.


	15. Everything Old is New Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to a previously interviewed witness turns up new information for Thursday and Jakes, while Morse makes do with desk duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK! Something that isn't the news! Read it!

Morse slowly came to his senses with a soft whimper, lying sprawled on his right side atop carpeted floor.

His head and shoulder ached with a soreness that spoke of a recent impact, and he shivered with a creeping chill that had settled into the hollow of his bones.

The cheek where Brewer had touched him burned as if he'd been slapped.

Opening his eyes warily was he able to glimpse the last of the day's fading glow of light, so while still near total darkness, it let Morse know he hadn't been out for very long. He lay there completely still for a few moments more, listening for any indication that Brewer might still be present.

The lack of sounds aside from his rabbit-quick heart rate thrumming in his ears led him to believe that he was blessedly alone. 

He carefully pressed himself into a sitting position, mindful of the broken glass, the second such incident involving wayward shards in a week. Morse hoped Brewer was expending as much energy breaking his glassware as he spent cleaning it up. Running fingers lightly over where David's impossibly solid touch had landed, he remained seated in the dark for some time, contemplating when the aggrieved apparition might make another startling appearance. Of all the dangers Endeavour had considered when he first undertook becoming a policeman, this situation ranked last on his list to consider. He'd never have believed any of this to be possible before the last week, the concept of an afterlife, much less such unrest after death.

It unnerved him to his core, to say the least.

Standing up gingerly, wary of the jagged glass shards, the icy, stinging point of contact upon his cheek reminded Morse that the inexplicable existence of David Brewer was all very, _painfully_ real. Stumbling into the kitchen, he turned another light on, and then set about retrieving a broom and dustpan.

When he would look into the mirror the next morning, after a restless night of sleep, unable to get comfortable or truly _warm_ , a faint impression of Brewer's hand still rested upon his jawline.

* * *

Strange stood before the evidence board in the CID office, rearranging the information gathered in lieu of yesterday's revelations. Or, as it were, the lack thereof. He heard footsteps clacking softly behind him, and turned to find Morse draping his coat over the back of his chair. By the distant look in his shadowed, hooded eyes, his colleague was physically present, but mentally he was somewhere else completely.

Jim took a few tentative steps forward, Morse having made no further movements aside from standing behind his desk chair, hands mindlessly smoothing out the shoulders of his coat fabric repeatedly. _Had something happened?_ "Morning, Morse," he announced carefully, not wanting to startle his fellow detective. The other man gave no indication that he had heard Jim at all, until several long moments had passed and he tilted his head up with a quick, lip-quirk of a smile.

"Strange," he acknowledged politely, and that's when Jim saw it, the faint, reddish hand mark curved around the left side of Endeavour's jaw.

Taking another few steps forward, he lowered his voice to avoid being overheard. "Matey, we're you... _slapped?_ " he asked of the copper-haired detective, his brow furrowed in concern. Whatever mask that Morse had affixed upon his face fell in an instant. 

"Not exactly," was his quiet response. "It's nothing I'd like to discuss, if it's all the same." Whereas Morse could sometimes ( _often_ , Jim corrected himself) be off-putting with his bluntness, now he just sounded tired with his earnest plea, bordering on frightened. Though Strange was concerned about his friend, he didn't wish to pry if the end result was to cause Morse undue grief.

He let further questions rest, nodding affirmatively. "No worries." He watched as Endeavour sagged a bit with relief, before drawing his attention to the board. "Come take a look, yeah? I've spent some time reassessing our priorities. Figured Jakes and Thursday could add to it as they saw fit when they came 'round."

The 'Witnesses' column had been left devoid of any relevant names, save for the lone person who ever had anything useful to say, Edward Siddall. Strange saw fit to slide him over into the 'Suspects' column the day prior, as he had not been contacted as of yet. Aidan's mother, Ellen Brewer, remained crossed out beneath his, as well.

They were getting nowhere, and rather quickly, too.

Endeavour absentmindedly rubbed at the burgeoning knot at his right temple where it had glanced off the carpeting the night before in thought, wincing slightly in doing so. He pressed on before Jim could comment on the slight movement.  
"Where are we with finding any _new_ witnesses? Has the local press been notified, yet? Any shops canvassed?"

Jim shook his head. "I got put on a robbery yesterday afternoon, but Jakes and Thursday stopped by a few businesses near where Brewer had parked his car. And, well, since you've been put on desk duty, the Old Man thought it best to have you phone around to the different news agencies. I know it's not your favorite, but..."

Morse shrugged slightly with a sigh. "But at least I get to work. Thanks, Jim." 

The taller detective sergeant grinned amicably. "Look, I've almost got this report from yesterday wrapped up. I could give you a hand with the press releases, if you'd like. I'll even let you have the _Daily Mail_."

Morse gave a slight smile in response to Strange's offer. "I think I'll take you up on that, thank you."

Maybe today wouldn't be a wash after all.

Pulling his desk chair back and having a seat, Morse picked up the phone, dialing the oft-used extension to Dorothea Frazil's office. Partway through, he heard an odd buzzing in his ears, the short hairs at his nape standing at attention with a slight chill.

Glancing behind him instinctively, only the evidence board remained in sight, along with the odd constable walking by on occasion. Pressing the hairs down with a swipe of his hand, Morse finished dialing as the buzzing faded, and Ms. Frazil's capable voice sounded on the other end of the line.

"Ms. Frazil? It's Morse. I have a request to ask of you...." 

* * *

After Jakes had swung by the Thursday residence and picked up the guv'nor, he was informed that they were not heading directly to the station, but to Edward Siddall's residence.

"I would rather he not be handled as a suspect this time around, but as a witness," he explained to his slickly-coifed detective sergeant. "I don't think he had anything to do with Aidan's disappearance, ultimately, but I want to ask him more about _how_ David Brewer was acting that day. It's the only unexplored line of questioning we haven't pursued, really, unless you've anything better, Jakes." 

Peter shook his head. "No, sir. No, I don't."

* * *

The modest, white-clapboard Siddall residence was but a short, ten minute drive from the nick, and Thursday hoped the early hour wouldn't be a deterrent from successfully interviewing its occupant. If Thursday had remembered correctly, Edward was an early riser, enjoying sunrise photography as the conditions allowed for it, but today was not to be one of those days. If he wasn't home, then Fred had other venues to look into as to his whereabouts. Though Siddall's wife had passed five years prior, his family still very much remained in the area. He owed that much, at least, to Morse.

Five quick raps upon his front door announced their presence.

"Mr. Siddall?" Fred called out when there had been no immediate response, "Thames Valley Police!"

Still no response. Just as Jakes was to suggest looking through the uncurtained windows surrounding the house, heavy footsteps were heard approaching the door, and the locks unfastened.

The man that opened the door was decidedly _not_ Edward Siddall.

"If you're looking for Edward, gents, I'm afraid you've just missed him."

"Is he out, then? When do you think he'll return?" Peter inquired.

The middle-aged man at the door chuckled sadly. "Oh, he's out, and I hope he doesn't come back anytime soon."

"And just why exactly is that?" Jakes queried impatiently.

"Because he died of lung cancer, about six months ago, I'm sorry to say."

Fred's heart sank. 

As he took in the crestfallen faces of the detectives, however, he asked, "Is this by any chance about the Aidan Brewer disappearance?" 

Both Thursday and Jakes exchanged surprised glances.

Could this be the break they had needed, that Morse had needed?

Thursday confirmed as much. "Yes, but how did you know? And who are you, exactly?"

"Tom," the grey-haired man announced, offering an outstretched hand to each detective in turn, "Tom Butler. And if you have the time, I think you gentlemen had better come inside."

* * *

Both Jakes and Thursday took a seat opposite Mr. Butler in the smallish kitchen, the latter two having a fresh cuppa. If there was anything that Peter had learned from working with Morse, it was to _never_ accept beverages from strangers. Of that much, he remained certain. 

Tom stirred a sugar cube into his tea as he spoke. "Edward talked about the case often, before he died. I used to work for the Siddalls, up until recently, that is." At this he patted his right side with a shrug. "Bum hip, you see. I know my surname is 'Butler,' but I was a gardner for the family, and I made fast friends with Ed after his wife passed. He was a good man. Left me this house in his last will and testament, he did. He, ah, never held it against you that he'd become a suspect, or anything, if that's what you're worried about."

_Not in the slightest_ , Peter wanted to say, but held his tongue.

"We're sorry to hear of Mr. Siddall's passing," Fred said sympathetically, "but, we interviewed the staff about Mr. Siddall at the time of our investigation last year. May I ask were you had been during all of this?"

Tom smiled. "On Holiday for the first time in nearly a decade. Spent two weeks in Spain. Time I had returned, he'd already been cleared and sent back home." 

"Fair enough, but why would he bring up the case after all was said and done?"

Tom recalled his friend fondly. "Because Aidan reminded him of his own grandson, Charlie. They would have been around the same age, and all."

Jakes followed up with, "You mean, when he passed away?"

Shaking his head, Tom eyed the CID men quizzically. "No, when he disappeared. He was never found, didn't Ed tell you?"

"No," Thursday responded ruefully, a flash of annoyance in his gaze as he glanced over at Jakes for confirmation, "he certainly didn't. And neither did the family, when we inquired of Edward. Why do you suppose they never mentioned that to us?"

Tom sighed resignedly. "They didn't want to admit he might have been abducted, not his mother, his father, nor the staff. You must understand something, about Edward. He was with Charlie, the day he disappeared. He was there one moment, and gone the next. They'd been shopping on the High Street, about two years after Barbara, that was Edward's wife, had passed on. He spent as much time with Charlie as he could after that, and he'd been about three when he'd gone missing, same as little Aidan. He turned his back for just a second to pick a coin off the ground, as he'd intended on giving it to Charlie for the wishing fountain, but he was already gone in that one instant."

Peter scoffed, much to Thursday's surprise. "And, what, they just stopped looking for him? Never thought to start an investigation, or contact the police?"

Tom shrugged. "Oh, they looked, alright, brought in a private investigator. Said they didn't want it 'dragged out before the whole of England.' Don't take this the wrong way, they are kind folks who treat their staff wonderfully, but they don't always make, well, the best decisions."

Fred took a sip from his own china. "Such as...?"

Tom looked at each man before him in turn, suddenly hesitant. "Well...did any of them ever mention a workhand by the name of Philip? Gage, is his surname. Philip Gage."

Peter wrote the name in his notebook with a shake of his head. "Not that I recall. What about you, sir?"

Thursday responded in the negative, as well. "No. Why does he come to mind, this Philip? You work with him often?" 

"We worked a bit together, on some collaborative duties in the yard, on occasion, but I didn't really get a chance to know him all that well. Seemed like a nice bloke, in his late twenties, or so, and he took quite a liking to Charlie. Always figured he considered him the younger brother he never had..."

Tom trailed off, looking deeply into his teacup. Jakes was about to ask whether he had intended on reading the leaves within for them when he began speaking again. "One day, I had to go out to the work shed on my off day, since I'd left my watch there the evening before. As I got closer, I could hear Charlie crying, and Philip yelling at him. I distinctly remember hearing him say, _'If you tell anyone, they won't believe you.'_ I jerked the door open as fast as I could to see what the matter was, because _who_ says something like that to a three year old? Little Charlie came tearing out of there with tears on his face. I thought Philip was going to attack me right then and there, the way he looked at me."

Jakes noted that as Tom spoke, the grip on his own pen had tightened considerably, his knuckles now white. 

Thursday's hand upon the teacup mirrored his own.

"Did you ever see them together after that, Charlie with Philip?" Fred asked.

"No. I tried to bring it up with the Siddalls, but they all got on with Philip, and would hear nothing of it. Thing is, it was but a week later that Charlie disappeared."

Jakes froze. "You're joking," he said numbly, furious that none of this had been conveyed to them during the course of their investigation. What if the cases had been connected? 

Tom met Jakes' gaze with all the seriousness of a heart attack. "Not only that, but Philip was so 'distraught' after Charlie disappeared that he quit just a few days later."

Before Fred could ask any one of the dozens of questions that the entire situation had warranted, Tom concluded with, "Since then, I've been searching for Philip. And," his green eyes then met each detective's gaze in turn with a grim, determined grin Jakes didn't think possible to have appeared in Butler's kindly face.

"I think I've found him."

* * *

Morse had just placed the phone receiver down when it suddenly rang. "Morse," he answered, thinking it was far too soon before the public could possibly be ringing in with potential leads. Still, he held his breath. 

_"Morse, it's Thursday. Write this name down: Philip, with one 'l,' Gage. Philip Gage. See if he shows up in any police blotters, or has any priors."_

Scribbling the foreign name within his ever-present notebook, Morse followed-up with, "Who is he, sir?" 

_"Workhand employed by the Siddall family, until about two years ago," Thursday relayed, "and as of right now, he's also our prime suspect."_

Morse felt his heart leap as he transcribed the new information. 

"Sir."

Morse hoped in that one word he had successfully conveyed both the joy and determination that the situation warranted before setting the receiver back down. In the thrill of the moment, his skin prickled, arm hairs standing at attention. 

He could only assume it was from the excitement of finding a potential lead, though the dark shadow residing in the corner of the CID suggested otherwise, as Endeavour was unaware he had an audience.


	16. Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thursday and Jakes pay a visit to the Siddall family, while Morse uncovers something from Philip Gage's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooooo boy, do 'interviewing' chapters take forever! Also not helping is my refreshing of Facebook and news sources every five minutes, or finding my way around a new house, or writing when my boyfriend isn't home so I don't have to explain Fanfiction. I'm not ready for 'The Talk' just yet XD
> 
> You could say I've been just a bIt dIsTrAcTeD.
> 
> This chapter is a touch shorter than I would have liked it to be, but it'd have been a monster had I not split it. I reckon I might have four or five chapters left, give or take? Definitely not less than that, but might could be more.
> 
> Thanks for riding this train with me, so far!

As Thursday thanked the affable Tom Butler for his rather eye-opening information, Peter looked at the address that had been passed onto them in reference to Philip Gage's current whereabouts. 

"Are we going here next, sir?"

"No," his superior all but growled, "not just yet. I want to have a little chat with the Siddall family, see just what they have to say for themselves."

The veteran detective was in rare form, and Jakes couldn't help but smirk to himself.

He was grateful to not be on the receiving end of this next 'conversation.'

* * *

After Morse relayed Philip Gage's name to Strange, both men felt their hearts lighten at the prospect of a new lead after an entire year had cycled past. It was something, even if it went nowhere.

Morse for certain hoped that it went _somewhere_.

"Did Thursday and Jakes say they were going to Gage's next?" Strange inquired, clearly eager to hit the ground in search of their suspect.

Morse shook his head, giving a small shrug. "He didn't say at all, actually, just asked for anything we had on him. Priors, and the like. I'd imagine you're next on deck, though." 

Jim glanced at his unfinished robbery report with disdain, breathing out a long-suffering sigh. "Yeah, I'd imagine..." He then pushed his chair back, standing up with a stretch. "Well, I for one need a break. Want anything from the canteen, matey?"

"No, thank you, Jim. I'd rather get on with this sooner than later. If Thursday calls back, I'll let you know first thing," Morse relayed.

As Morse set about retrieving any prior mention of one Philip Gage, he chalked the low, constant buzzing in his ears to nerves, and nothing more.

* * *

The Siddall family residence wasn't too far from where Edward, and now Tom, lived. It existed close enough to be near loved ones, but far enough away to provide some much needed distance, as relatives must in order to thrive.

It was a concept wholly foreign to Peter Jakes, when he considered his nightmare of a childhood.

Now, he walked a step behind Thursday as his guv'nor slammed the door to the Jag just a bit too loudly, a clear indication of how he felt about the Siddalls and just what their denial may have cost the family. Three rapt knocks on the front door of their two-storey, brick home was all Thursday needed before the door swung open to reveal Helen Siddall-Croft, Edward's only daughter, and mother of Charlie.

The expectant look upon her rounded face morphed into one of disappointment, followed by barely contained anger.

"You'll have to forgive me Detective Inspector Thursday, but I'd _assumed_ you were the milkman. Otherwise I would _never_ have opened the door for _you_ lot again."

Peter was glad he'd positioned himself behind Thursday, so that the DI couldn't be witness to the look of utter shock on his subordinate's face as Jakes' own jaw unhinged in disbelief, eyebrows skyrocketing high with the woman's sheer audacity. He suspected that the older man's stony expression was the mirror opposite of his own.

"Mrs. Siddall-Croft, Detective Sergeant Peter Jakes and I would first like to express our sympathies for the loss of your father," Thursday steamrolled on, and _goddamn, did he make it sound sincere_ , Jakes thought with a touch of envy, "and also to ask what you know of a workman you'd hired in the past, a Philip Gage?"

Unsure on exactly which part of Thursday's statement to reply to first, Helen appeared more confused than anything. With a long, pointed look at each them, she cocked her head with a huff before declaring, "You've been speaking with Tom Butler, haven't you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Siddall-Croft, we have been, just this morning. Why do you ask?" queried Thursday shrewdly. Helen then stepped aside, and motioned for the two of them to enter with no small amount of disdain present.

"If you're going to repeat Tom's _ridiculous_ ideas, then I'd rather you come inside. Don't really want all the neighbors hearing any of that nonsense, if you don't mind," she offered, grey eyes ablaze with incredulity.

Jakes made certain to maintain a neutral expression when Thursday turned briefly before entering, his own eyebrow cocked in disbelief. 

Helen's blonde hair and dangling, but modest, pearl earrings bobbed as she led them into the living room, sitting down on the edge of a large, floral patterned chair, motioning for the detectives to have a seat upon the couch beside it. Her perched, upright posture indicated to Jakes that she did not intend on them taking very long, and to be honest, he didn't want to be there any longer than absolutely necessary. She looked for all the world like a small bird taking a quick respite, and that she could very well take flight at any moment.

"Let me guess," Helen prefaced, "Tom told you all about Philip, did he? How he was somehow responsible for my Charlie's disappearance?" Before Thursday could consider responding, she spoke again instead. "Well, it's the ramblings of an old man, if you don't mind my saying so, such _awful_ , hurtful lies. Philip and Charlie were ever so close, and it _destroyed_ Philip when my son went missing. Besides, the private investigator we hired never suspected Philip, so why should we?"

"Tom Butler is barely into his fifties," Peter retorted with a glance towards a very unamused Thursday, "hardly the ravings of a senile 'old man.' Why would he go to such lengths to spread rumours about Mr. Gage? Was there any obvious tension between them?"

Helen shrugged with disinterest. "No, I can't say that there was. They only worked together a few times, really. Which makes Tom's accusations all the more confusing! Philip was such a sweet lad, he loved Charlie like a _brother_. My father took quite a shine to Philip, too, used to take him out on his walks with Charlie into the countryside. He was into birds, you see, and taught Philip how to identify and photograph them, even let him borrow his camera!" At this she faltered, smiling fondly in recollection. "He never let _anyone_ touch that old thing..."

Jakes narrowed his eyes as she trailed off, looking askance as if lost in thought. 

"Come to think of it, I don't know where my father's camera went. I'd meant to display it on the mantle after he passed, but it wasn't in the house before Tom moved in...anyhow, I'm not sure why you're here, but there's nothing more that I care to discuss with you about my family. _Ever_. "

From Thursday's thunderous expression, Jakes knew what was coming next, and he tipped his head under the guise of writing in his notebook to conceal his expression.

"If I may, Mrs. Siddall-Croft, did you ever consider that Mr. Butler might have been telling the truth about Philip Gage, that an incident he witnessed and came to you about, if I'm not mistaken, may have been a warning for what was to come?" Fred boomed loudly, though restrained, over Helen's subsequent scoff and eye roll. "Why did you not think to contact the police, and instead hire a private investigator? I suppose he interviewed Mr. Gage in lieu of his sudden departure shortly after your child's death?"

"Why ever would he--?" Helen began to argue, but Thursday was having none of it.

"Why would he _not_? How can you sleep at night not knowing what happened to your son, knowing that you didn't even try to exhaust every last resource available to you? We could have been an invaluable assistance --"

"Like you were to David Brewer?" she countered, piercing eyes unwavering as they bored into Thursday with no small amount of malice. "Tell me, how did that work out for you?"

Peter tensed as he noted the flexing of his superior's jaw, and spoke abruptly before Thursday could regret his building retort.

"Have you the name and contact for the P.I. you hired? Maybe _he_ can be of use to us." Thursday's countenance softened at that, somewhat, but just enough to take the edge off, most likely due to Jakes' biting remark.

Scowling at the pair as she stood, Helen Siddall-Croft walked smartly to the wooden, roll-top desk in the next room, and quickly retrieved an embossed, cream-coloured business card from its interior depths. She then marched back into the sitting room, and all but flung it at Jakes.

"Here, take it. Perhaps he'll be more useful to you, because he certainly was of _no_ to my family," she declared venomously, before nodding to the door. "You both know the way out. _Gentlemen_."

And with that, she stalked out of the room, a door in the adjacent hallway soon slamming closed behind her.

Both CID men stood from their seats, looking at each other in disappointment before turning their attentions to the small card within Peter's grasp.

All in all, the lanky detective sergeant considered, things could have gone a _hell_ of a lot worse. 

* * *

Morse had thrown himself into researching every publication and report the CID had to offer, and while no clear indication had been divulged as to Gage's current whereabouts, he did ascertain clues as to where he had _been_.

It was better than nothing, he supposed.

While it did not appear as if the young man had an arrest record, Philip Gage, aged twenty-six, of Oxfordshire, was the subject of a rather curious incident. And this did Endeavour relay to Strange as the information at hand became clearer.  
"Strange, have you got a moment?" 

Jim perked up at this, having finally finished his report, only to be pulled to assist another detective constable with editing _his_ account. "Sure thing, Morse. You found something?"

Morse's eyes narrowed as he peered at the document on his desk. "Maybe...there's a newspaper account, from about eighteen years back, that mentions Philip." He cocked his head, holding the paper out towards Strange. "Well, more than mentions him, really. See for yourself."

Jim took the report, grateful for a different task. In his hand was the darkened copy of a newspaper article, its headline declaring ' _Oxfordshire Schoolboy Dies in Tragic Accident_.' The lines of print detailed the fatal occurrence that led to the death of five year old Michael Gage, "'...survived by his older brother, Philip, aged eight. In what appeared to be an accidental tragedy, the young boy was found to have fallen from a second story window in the family home. Foul play was not suspected in the boy's death, wherein he suffered a broken neck'...how 'accidental' do you reckon this was, Morse?"

The copper-haired detective ran a hand through his locks, shaking his head. "I don't know, Jim. I'm going to search for more accounts of this incident before jumping to any conclusions. This may explain why Gage spent so much time with Charlie Siddall, but it doesn't necessarily help us with the Brewer case--"

It was at that moment the phone before him rang, startling Morse. "Thames Valley CID, Detective Sergeant Mor--of, course, sir. Yes. I'll let him know," he responded to a conversation Strange could only speculate on, moreso when his colleague's eyes rose to meet his own. Morse next grabbed at a pen and pad, scratching out a name and address before passing on the torn out paper to Jim. "Yes, I may have found something on Gage, but I need to do more research first. Alright. Keep us in the loop."

Jim looked down at the paper in his hand as Morse placed the phone back onto its cradle. "Thursday wants me to interview this private investigator, I take it?"

Morse nodded in affirmation. "Yes, he'd been hired by the Siddalls after Charlie disappeared. He's interested in whether or not Gage's name was ever mentioned. They've both just come from the Siddall house, and it, erm, didn't go so well," he confirmed, his mouth twisting wryly, "but they were able to get Gage's current address from the previous gardener, Tom Butler. They're on their way there now."

Strange stood, swinging his coat off the back of his chair as he read the address again. "Best of luck, matey," he smiled, giving Morse a nod as he left his fellow detective behind, confined to the desk, as he was.

Re-reading the newspaper article that Strange had set back down, Morse had the faint beginning of a theory forming loosely in his mind. He knew he needed more hard evidence in hand before voicing it aloud, but even in its skeletal state, Endeavour hoped he'd be proven wrong.

A flash of movement then appeared in his periphery, but when he looked up, there was no one in sight.

Rubbing at his eyes, Morse shook it off, and continued with his search.


	17. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the pieces begin to fall into place, and Morse takes a stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one wrote itself, and I hope it makes sense. So many threads to follow! Not sure if they are loose, braided, or knotted, at this point!

The neighbourhood Jim Strange found himself in during his search for the Siddall family's private investigator wasn't exactly the squalid flat he had imagined, but a home much nicer than even that of Chief Superintendent Bright. Either the man was as good as any veteran copper, or a charlatan.

Jim bet on the latter.

A few knocks on Harvey Wallace's front door announced Jim's presence before he did. "Thames Valley CID! I've a few questions for you, Mr. Wallace."

Not another minute passed before the door swung open wide. While the abode wasn't fitting for that of a P.I., the character before Jim most certainly was. Harvey Wallace stood quizzically in the doorway, white, unkempt mustache nearly obscuring his upper lip, glasses thick with a heavy prescription. He may have been a copper, once, but those days were long gone.

"May I...help you?" Wallace inquired, head cocked, as if not understanding how the taller man came to be standing on his porch.

"Detective Sergeant Jim Strange, sir. I'd like to ask you a few questions pertaining to a disappearance we're working on, that may be related to a previous case of your own. I understand that you once took a job for the Siddall family a few years back? Their son--"

"Charlie," Wallace finished, a sad smile quirked upon his lips. "Yes, I remember them quite well. They steadfastly refused to go to the police, though I never quite understood why, aside from wanting to maintain their privacy. Whole family was a bear to work with. I admit that I may have charged them a bit, erm, _extra_ for my services."

Jim cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing of it. "Right...what issues did you have while working with them, exactly?"

Wallace whistled low under his breath. "They wouldn't let me interview their whole staff, for starters. One of their workmen who'd spent most of his time with Charlie left not a week after he'd been supposedly kidnapped, a young man by the name of Philip Gage."

"That's a name that's come up before," Strange admitted, showing but one card in his deck. "What do you know of him?" 

Wallace looked askance, something unreadable in his eyes. "I knew he and Charlie were close, maybe too close, from what the other staff members told me. Didn't seem to have many friends his age, but hung around the little one an awful lot. It just didn't seem... _right_ , was all. I'm not sure what his intentions were, in all fairness, but when I mentioned as much to the family, they would hear nothing of it. The level of denial exhibited by them was insurmountable, to say the least. So," he said, looking back towards Strange with a mischievous glint in his eye, "I tracked him down, conducted my own interview. Let's just say, it was nothing short of a disaster."

Jim had at once stopped his notebook scribbling, furrowing his brow in curiosity. "How do you mean?" 

"Well, I'd gotten his address at the time from another workman, though Gage has since moved on. I know because I've checked over the years. From what the Siddalls relayed to me, Philip was an honest, hard-working laborer who looked after the young one like he was his own. The grandfather, Edward, God Rest His Soul, treated Philip like his own son. The man I found that day at Gage's address was _not_ that same person, Detective Sergeant Strange, not in personality, leastways."

Here, Wallace stopped, lifting up a portion of his shaggy hair near the nape of his neck. A long, thin scar was visible, faded white with healing and age. "That," Harvey spoke, "is from where I struck the kerb after Philip Gage laid me flat after I but _mentioned_ Charlie's name."

Jim's eyes widened in horror. "What happened after that?"

A small shrug proceeded his next words. "Mrs. Siddall-Croft found out I'd gone after Philip, and she fired me. Paid my hospital bills, and settled for a very large sum out of court, of course." Here he patted the side of his doorframe. "A _princely_ sum. I suppose she thinks that she's bought my silence on the matter, but that was never the case. While I was in hospital, the most curious thing happened. The gardener, Tom Butler, a good man if there ever was one, paid me a visit one day. He'd been on Holiday, and when he'd heard what'd happened, first with Charlie, then Edward, and after, Philip, he came to me straight-away and asked, ' _Did Philip admit anything to you? Because it's him that's done something with Charlie, I just know it.'_ "

Silence loomed heavily as Jim processed all that he'd just heard. But, Wallace wasn't finished, not just yet. 

"I've interviewed hundreds of witnesses and suspects over the years, Mr. Strange, as no doubt you have, as well. But when I say to you that I've never met a man with as much conviction behind his words as Tom Butler did that day, well, if I said otherwise, I'd be lying."

From his own years of honed experience, Jim had no doubt that both Edward Siddall and Harvey Wallace were telling their respective truths.

* * *

Morse rubbed tiredly at his eyes, having sifted through report after report, the subsequent newspaper articles not offering up much more information than the first one he'd found on the Michael Gage tragedy. A few phone calls in search of any remaining Gages turned up no one, as both mother and father had passed on nearly five years back due to a car accident. It made sense that Philip had grown so attached to the Siddalls, his own family having died just prior to his employment with them, but there was something else unspoken that Morse couldn't quite place...

His reverie was broken by a ringing telephone, and he snatched it up. "Morse?" he answered, assuming at this point that it was either someone returning his call, or his colleagues.

" _Morse, it's Dorothea. I may have found a living relative for you, an aunt of Philip's. I've a number, if you're interested_ ," the reporter relayed, in a half-teasing tone.

Endeavour smiled at his desk. "That's wonderful news, Ms. Frazil! Go on, I'm listening..."

After giving the name and number, she then said, " _There's something else I've found for you: a photograph of both Philip and Michael, from the archives. It was originally to go along with an article on Michael's death, but it was never published._ "

"Why not? Was there not enough room?"

" _Not exactly. We received it from the aunt whose information I just gave to you. Only, she made us promise not to publish it. She wanted us to be able to see Michael's face when we wrote the story, but, Morse...she wouldn't say why, if you want to start there. I'll have someone drop the photograph by in a bit, but...Snappy, please, be careful._ "

A chill crept up the detective's spine, like a flash of cold, trickling water at Ms. Frazil's words. "I will, Dorothea, thank you."

Though he longed to make his words a promise, he simply couldn't, given the nature of the job. Pressing the disconnect button, he held the phone closer to his ear, and set about ringing Gage's aunt.

* * *

Fred Thursday wasn't scared of much, not anymore, but if one were to ask him to enter what had once been Philip Gage's residence again after that day, he'd have to respectfully decline.

The general atmosphere of the defunct living quarters was one that Thursday wished to never encounter again, impersonal as they were. That wasn't to say that there weren't any momentos around to give visitors a sense of who lived there, it was that what did exist in the small, dingy flat was so devoid of personality that it might as well have been a theatre set piece.

No pictures, nor tchotckes decorated the walls or furniture that remained in the dark, wooden space. Nothing, save for moulding, empty condiment jars in the dusty cabinets, and old, dirty, floral linens draped to conceal the light through the windows. It wouldn't have been so alarming had the landlord not encountered them upon their arrival.

" _If you're looking for Gage, he cleared out about two weeks ago, but he's paid up through the end of the month. I left the majority of his belongings inside 'case he comes back._ "

" _Did you say the 'majority'?" Jakes had asked skeptically._

_The landlord shrugged. "Came here and left here with but a backpack on his shoulder. I provided the rest of the furniture, but he lived just as you see for a few years. Wasn't much for cleaning. Come see me when you're through, and I might have a forwarding address for you gents."_

Fred had seen people live with minimal goods in their homes, but this...this wasn't _living_ , but merely _existing_.

It didn't suit.

Another cupboard door opened to reveal naught but spiders and remnants of broken, gossamer webbing. An increasingly frustrated sigh on his behalf was interrupted by a slight gasp from Jakes.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw the lean detective sergeant kneeling onto the floor, prying up a loose board with just his hands. With a crack did the wooden panel give, a cloud of dust blooming with the action, and Jakes' eyes widened considerably. "Sir," he called tersely, rousting Fred from his position near the cupboards, and as he walked over he saw that which the other man held aloft.

Edward Siddall's camera looked in worse shape since he'd last seen it, but the device was unmistakably his.

Peter passed it towards him so that he may get a better look, and Thursday nodded grimly. "It's the missing camera, alright...Jakes? You find something else, lad?"

Jakes' pale face had blanched even further as he stuck his hand beneath the floor once more, before withdrawing a stack of photographs.

There must have been at least a hundred in that bundle alone, tied with twine.

A sickness took hold in the pit of Thursday's stomach, his skin prickling with dread as Peter untied the binding. 

The first several photos were of birds, of winged creatures perched in trees, followed by the dawning flash of sunrises on the horizon, Oxford's spires in the foreground. The next few, however, were more sinister in nature. Though each boy remained clothed throughout, a series of shots featuring first Charlie, both posed and candid, were followed by those of Aidan Brewer, taken from a considerable distance. The similarities in each child's features were unmistakable.

There remained no doubt in Thursday's mind who had kidnapped, and most likely killed, both Charlie and Aidan.

All that remained was to find the bastard, and prove it.

* * *

" _I don't like to speak ill of my relations, but there was something fundamentally wrong with Philip ever since Michael came along_."

The interview with Gage's aunt, Elizabeth Hunt, sister to his mother Maria, was eye-opening to say the least.

"In what way?" Endeavour prompted, his interest piqued at her openness.

Ms. Hunt sighed as she tried to find the words best to describe her nephew. " _I won't say he was...jealous, necessarily, because he was close with Michael. He loved him dearly. I almost had the sense that Philip wanted his brother to grow up faster, to be someone he could really play and rough house with, instead of the young child that he was. There were more than a few times that Philip's aggravation and impatience got the best of him. And Michael._ "

"Such as...?"

" _Look, there were...incidents, yes. Bruises here, a scuffed knee there, but we never thought much of it until, well, Michael's death._ "

"Ms. Hunt, do you believe your nephew killed his brother, be it by accident?" Morse implored.

" _Well...I don't believe it was an accident, no. If you've a pen, I'll give you his current address. He needs help, Mr. Morse. Ensure that he gets it._ "

Writing the information down, Morse gulped softly, her words leaving him slightly sickened. There were layers to this case, these seemingly interconnecting stories, that he no longer wished to peel back, as he feared he'd soon be discovering only the rotten core within.

No sooner had he hung the phone up did it ring again, and he sighed loudly. "Morse--?"

A shrill, electronic _shriek_ pierced his ear, nearly causing him to drop the phone before the noise lessened somewhat, remaining as static background noise as it settled to an even tone. Once the ringing had stopped, the detective belatedly realized that Thursday had been in the middle of relaying pertinent information on the other end of the line, and he scrambled to answer the guv'nor. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Jim Strange returned from his interview session, eyeing him curiously.

"Wait, sir, could you repeat that? There's some feedback on the line--"

" _You didn't catch any of that, then? I said Jakes and I are--_ "

Another ear-splitting note sounded, drawing Strange's attention for the second time in as few minutes. 

"Matey? What's wrong with your connection?" Strange asked as Morse stood, jiggling the wires protruding from the rear of the phone.

"I-I don't know, Jim, I can't--"

_"......fiiiiind......hiiiiim......."_

The voice that rang halting and rasping from the receiver was neither Thursday nor Jakes.

_It was the voice of his nightmares._

Endeavour slowly sank into his chair, shaking, his face bloodless as the phone rested numbly in his hand. 

There was a soft click before the call was disconnected, and the steady drone of the dialtone was clear even to Jim's own ears.

Jim Strange was alarmed to say the least. "Morse? Morse, what the _hell happened_? What's wrong?"

The trembling detective stared agape at the receiver, eyes blown wide with terror. At once did he slam the phone back into the cradle, skidding his chair back loudly as he jumped up with gasping breaths.

" _Air_ ," he choked out as Jim came closer still, "I-I need..." 

Skirting his worried friend's outstretched, hovering hand, Morse fled down the hallway in an instant. Before he pushed open the doors leading outside to the crisp, winter air, he heard his phone trill yet again before Jim answered it, his voice already sounding far away.

He ran from the building before he could hear the ensuing conversation, and braced his hands against the cold metal back of a bench left unoccupied off to the side. The chill grounded him as he considered what he'd just heard, as well as numbed his previously inflicted back wounds which had stretched painfully tight upon standing so abruptly. Morse's breaths were quick, gasping puffs of air, and he knew that if he didn't try to regulate his breathing soon, he'd end up flat on the concrete.

Endeavour closed his eyes, skin clammy, and he focused on calming himself, oblivious to the looks of passerby as he stood hunched over in his rolled shirtsleeves as snowflakes fell from the sky.

_".....fiiiiind.....hiiiiim....."_

_Couldn't he tell that he was trying?_

* * *

Strange watched helplessly as Morse ran from the room, unsure as to what exactly had just taken place. He snapped to attention upon hearing the other detective's phone ring again, and snatched it up with haste.

"Strange, er, Morse's phone..." he finished lamely.

" _Jim? Is everything alright over there?_ " his guv'nor questioned, no doubt wondering why his bagman wasn't answering his own phone.

"Ah, Morse had to step out for a moment, but I've only just returned myself. Anything new?" Strange inquired.

" _Yes, unfortunately. Jakes and I are leaving Gage's old residence. We...recovered some evidence along the way_."

Jim thought Thursday sounded more grim than he had since this adventure had started. "Is it him? Gage?"

" _Yes, Strange. Yes, it is._ "

The lone detective swallowed hard at this revelation.

Perhaps David Brewer would get his closure, yet.

* * *

By the time Thursday and Jakes had returned, Morse was planted firmly behind his desk, papers thrown askew as he tried his best to organize the information he had at hand. He had intercepted the envelope sent over by Dorothea Frazil enroute, and had already placed its contents into one of his piles.

_Jim had noted that Morse didn't so much as look at him upon his arrival, his head tucked down as he returned back to his station, as if to will himself away. When asked if he wanted to discuss what had happened, a quick, adamant shake of his friend's head was all the answer he needed._

_Something had spooked him, and badly._

Jakes led the way, Edward Siddall's camera grasped firmly between his hands. This caught the attention of the other detective sergeants immediately, as their mouths fell agape.

"You found it..." Strange remarked in awe, for certain that it had been destroyed long ago.

"That's not all," Jakes declared, holding up the stack of photos, "there are dozens more."

Morse walked over to Peter, indicating the photos with a nod of his head. "May I?" he asked, before taking a few of the printed photographs in each hand. He skimmed through the top twenty or so silently as Thursday discussed the state of Gage's flat, as well as the disdain shown by Helen Siddall-Croft towards both themselves, and also Harvey Wallace. 

"Mr. Wallace had some choice words about her, too, if I might add. And it also sounds like she's either in an extreme state of denial when it comes to discussing Philip Gage, or she's lying. Gage put Wallace in the hospital after he tried to interview him behind the family's back, but they settled up with him. Sounds like he and Tom Butler have been searching for Gage for quite some time," Strange explained.

"Amidst all the lies and speculation, one fact remains certain: Philip Gage was spending an inordinate amount of time with Charlie, but for what purpose? We don't have the evidence yet to prove it, or how Aidan fits into all of this, if he even does, aside from their physical similarities. For all we know, those could have been Edward's pictures," Thursday reasoned with a scowl.

Morse had remained silent thus far, still only half-listening as he came across one set of photos in particular. His brow furrowed as he looked between them, glancing at one, then the other. Suddenly, his eyes grew wide with a dawning realization, and he placed a picture of Aidan back down on the desk. He then looked up at his colleagues, the trio now completely focused on him.

"Morse?" Fred prompted, realizing the tell-tale signs that something was amiss.

"Hear me out," he began, displaying Charlie's photo for all to see, "but I don't think Gage is a paedophile, which seems the most obvious answer. I believe he targeted both children because of their physical appearance, yes, and I think he's our man, but not in the way you might suspect. I had a thought, when I first ran across a news article concerning the accidental death of Philip's brother, Michael, when they were eight and five, respectively. Michael had fallen from a second story window, and I considered that maybe Philip was somehow responsible. I spoke with Philip's aunt, and she wholeheartedly agrees that not only was Michael's death _not_ an accident, but that it was Philip's doing." He paused, turning his attention to Thursday directly.

"Sir, you had mentioned that Tom Butler had seen Charlie running out of the Siddall's shed that day, in tears. Well, I think I know what he may have been doing."

His audience rapt, Morse turned back to his desk, pulling another photo from the pile of paperwork upon it. Holding it aloft, he then presented the pictures side by side. In each of them, a young, blonde boy wore green pants and a grey jumper, brown shoes peeking out under the cuffs. One, however, was older, faded, with the child standing aside a taller boy, somewhere in a yard.

The other child was in distress, crying, while seated in what looked like an outbuilding, and was more recent.

"Are these...these aren't of the same boy, are they?" Thursday inquired, disbelieving what he was seeing before him.

Morse shook his head. "The older photo is of Philip and his brother Michael, some 19 years ago. The other is Charlie Siddall--"

"--dressed up like Michael," Strange finished in bewilderment. 

Picking back up the image of Aidan and holding the three together, the trio could have been mistaken as brothers.

"But...why?" Jakes asked, shaking his head in nothing short of disbelief. 

"Either Philip Gage misses his brother enough to go to such extreme lengths as kidnapping to bring him back to 'life,' as it were," Morse declared, "or...he's more culpable in Michael's death than anybody at the time realized." 

Fred's countenance hardened, though his eyes were soft with sorrow. "You think he's trying to atone for the murder of his own brother by, what, making 'new' ones?"

Nodding grimly, Morse agreed. "Yes. I do."

* * *

That evening, alone in his home, record volume turned low as he contemplated the day's revelations, Endeavour focused his attentions on the plan for the following day. He'd been granted permission to ride alongside Jakes to hopefully conduct an interview with Philip Gage, if the address he'd earlier received from Gage's aunt proved to be correct. Both detectives had agreed to bring their service pistols along, as Gage was considered highly volatile, if he was even there to begin with.

Morse was thankful for the opportunity.

He dared not speculate on what could occur with Brewer if something happened to their main suspect before Aidan could be recovered. Regardless of what state he might be in...

Pulling the needle from the record's grooves, Morse placed the arm atop its resting place as he also prepared to retire for the evening. He suspected that the next day would prove to be a long one, for all involved.

As he stepped into the bedroom after having performed his nightly ministrations, Morse paused, suddenly aware of the hair on his arms standing at attention, a low buzzing present at the base of his skull. He spun at once toward the open door, breath caught in his throat, to find he wasn't alone.

Brewer stood in the middle of the living room, shadowed partially in darkness, chest heaving with the memory of his last breaths. The apparition simply stared, or at least Morse could only speculate that's what he was doing, his face obscured. 

Exhausted from the unnecessary fright earlier that day, at his wit's end, and quite simply _done with it all_ , Morse gritted his teeth, strode forward, and slammed the bedroom door shut in Brewer's translucent face.

Turning the light off, he then lay down atop his bed, and was out within moments.

Brewer didn't bother him for the rest of the evening.


	18. Going Up the Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse and Jakes seek out the elusive Philip Gage, and Strange makes a surprising discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooh, we're almost there, oooohhhh, chicken on a bear!
> 
> That's the song, right? 
> 
> Yeah, pretty sure it is.

There was a palpable tension when the detectives of the CID reconvened that next morning, and Morse could feel his skin thrumming with a feeling somewhere between excitement and trepidation. Jakes looked no less relaxed, leaning against the edge of Morse's desk as he surveyed the evidence board once again, arms folded tightly across his chest.

Key photographs recovered the day prior were placed front and center upon the board, and once more the uncanny resemblance among the three boys could neither be ignored, nor chalked up to a mere coincidence. There remained the one, unanswered question: if the photographs weren't Edward Siddall's, then how did Philip know about Aidan? It had been established how David Brewer felt about the older man wanting to take his photograph, so it went without comment how he would have reacted to candid photos taken of his child without his knowledge.

As Jakes withdrew a fresh cigarette from his ever-present pack of smokes, Strange stepped forward, and tapped a finger lightly against Aidan's image. "These look to have been taken in proximity to the university, given the distance of the building spires as you see them, especially here. While you two are out and about, I think I'll take a few of those photos with me, see if I can't pin down the vantage point our photographer may have used," he suggested.

Thursday nodded, taking a puff of his own pipe. "Good thinking, Strange. See if you can find anyone that might have witnessed either of them in the vicinity. It's a longshot, but there's always been an outdoor vendor or two in that area, if the locations match up. And take the camera with you, Jim. Someone's bound to remember an antique like that."

Strange picked up the lumbersome camera with both hands, and eyed it appraisingly. "You certainly don't see these, not anymore." Though the results of the fingerprint test had yet to come back, there was no doubt for anyone involved that there'd be but two sets of prints visible, those of both Edward and Philip.

Waving his cigarette around animatedly, Jakes furthered the discussion. "If we can just place Gage in the same space at the same time as the Brewers, then we'd have every right to bring him in. I'm all for it, regardless, but we just have to be careful that he doesn't immediately lawyer-up when we do find him." 

"He won't," Morse declared authoritatively, and he noted Jakes' thinly veiled attempt at suppressing an eyeroll. Though their dynamic had shifted somewhat towards more of an understanding of one another over the course of the past week and a half, they were still very much their usual selves down to their roots. Endeavour forged on, in explanation. "Remember how he met Harvey Wallace's inquiries, with his fists? The issue was swept under the rug, as far as he was concerned. He never had to deal with the fallout of his actions then, and if he's done what we suspect he has, then he's never had a culpable moment in his _life_. Beginning with Michael's death, if we can prove it." He shook his head, eyes focused on the faded photo of the younger Gage. "He may have no idea how to procure a lawyer, if he's never had to face responsibility before."

Thursday nodded solemnly, eyeing each of his detectives in turn. "I've a meeting with Mr. Bright in a bit, but I think we have a solid plan. Above all, be careful and mind how you go. Morse, before you and Jakes leave, a word?" The detective inspector motioned towards his office before heading in that direction, leaving Morse no option but to follow. 

If Strange looked oddly guilty as they passed by, then Endeavour was certain it was coincidental.

"Sir?" Morse asked, shutting the office door behind him. He remained standing. 

Thursday carefully knocked the burned ashes from his pipe into an ashtray upon the wooden desk top. "Yesterday, when I called you that last time...what happened?"

Strange's sheepish expression made much more sense now.

"What...what do you mean, ' _what happ--'?_ " Morse stammered, running a fingernail across the edge of his eyebrow. This was the _very last_ conversation he'd wished to be having right now.

"I talked to Strange, when I rang back. He told me you'd gone paler than paper, before you'd run out. So, I'll ask again, lad...what happened?" The look leveled by the Guv'nor was not one Morse wished to be on the receiving end of, ever again. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that unlike others in his position, he wasn't under interrogation.

Morse's throat bobbed several times before he was able to speak properly, unconsciously folding his arms across his chest as he rocked on his heels. "He...spoke to me, over the phone. Brewer did. Told me to ' _find him_.' His voice was... _tinny_ , and halting, like it hurt to speak. But," here Morse barked a hoarse laugh, gesturing wildly with his right hand, "well, he's _dead_ , isn't he? How can it _hurt_ , if he's not...?"

Without realizing it had Thursday moved from around his desk to grasp his bagman's left shoulder firmly with a solid, reassuring grip, a determined look upon his face. Endeavour raised his head, finding encouragement in his guv'nor's steely gaze. "You've come too far, Morse, to fall apart now, do you hear me?" He continued only after receiving a hesitantly nodded affirmation. "I trust you and Jakes to find Gage and bring him in, and I need you to trust me that this is nearly over. I know you'll both have your service issues on hand, but for God's sake, be _careful_."

Morse smiled as reassuringly as he could. "We will, sir. I promise."

A firm clap of his shoulder was the final word in the conversation, and Morse soon left to rejoin his partner. As Thursday watched them leave, he only hoped that his bagman had told him the truth about remaining cautious.

They couldn't afford any missteps, not now.

* * * 

The longer Jim Strange had stared at and studied the photos recovered from Gage's previous flat, the more they all looked the same. 

Aside from one, that remained subconsciously more distinct than the rest. He didn't know why it looked any more familiar, but it was the first location he was drawn to, not fifteen minutes after the trio of detective sergeants had disbanded from the premises of Castle Gate. He'd spent a fair amount of time the evening before considering where he'd recollected that singular, improbably memorable location, but within a quarter of an hour he found himself at the spot in question, photo poised aloft as he attempted to match the surroundings.

Jim stood on a stone bridge, just before the curved apex as it rested over the Isis, calm water below reflecting his visage back at him. The bottom portion of a clock tower was visible in the background, flanked by frost-encrusted river reeds. In the photo, the retreating forms of the Brewers could be seen clearly, their profiles distinct as they turned away. Strange stared at David's profile with a sort of detached anger, unable to completely correlate that man with the one who had terrorized his friend for nearly two solid weeks. The David in the photo was a loving father, as of yet bereft of his little boy.

He had yet to become the impossible, yet hellish revenant that had inexplicably torn Morse's back to bloody ribbons in the Thursday home, nor the corporeal version that nearly beat him senseless less than a fortnight prior. 

No, the David in the photograph was none of those things. Not yet.

It was at that very spot where either Edward or Philip had stood that day, snapping a surreptitious moment on film of a young boy who reminded the photographer of another, be it of grandson or brother. That's what the detective was there to find out. Lost in his musings, Strange was vaguely aware of a repetitive series of phrases being called out behind him, not entirely irritating, but more...melodic.

"Flower crowns for your sweetheart, pay what you can. Crowns for a queen..."

Strange spun 'round, photo lowered to his side. Without hesitation, he began to walk with purpose towards the seated vendor, her wares of circular winter foliage spread out on a woolen blanket before her. When she saw him approach, the middle-aged woman began to stand in haste. "Look, copper, I was told I could be here--"

The tall detective held up his hands placatingly, attempting to calm the woman. "It's alright, Miss! I'm not here to hassle you, I just want to ask you a question about this photograph I've got." As he neared, the woman looked cautiously at the proferred picture. "Is there any chance these two look familiar? Would have been over a year ago, now."

The woman peered with squinted eyes, delicate lines radiating from the skin around them, before cracking a sad, lopsided smile. "Yes. I do remember them, they were here often. I'll never forget the little one's laugh...he's gone missing though, hasn't he? I recalled a news story about the child, and I was upset when I realized I might never hear his laugh again. But, why are you asking me this, now?"

Jim withdrew the photo, moving to replace it with another from his breast pocket, when the woman stopped him. "Does it have anything to do with that camera you're wearing?" she asked, motioning to the device slung around Jim's neck. "You see, I remember the lovely older gentlemen who owned it, and I can tell you, he didn't take that photo with it." 

The detective paused in his retrieval, her words catching him off guard. "No? Then who did, if I may ask?"

She smiled at him knowingly, raising her eyebrows and looking expectantly at the still hidden photo. "I didn't know his name, but he wasn't anyone I'd bring home to meet my Mum, I'll tell you that much. Followed the pair of them around like you see those celebrity hounds doing," she explained with disdain, "though I don't think they were anyone famous, just... _unlucky_ to have caught this perv's eye. I'd thought to tell someone about it, but the next time I'd come around, they'd all just... _gone_. The boy, his dad, and the other one. Just didn't come back one day."

Producing the photograph from his pocket, Jim queried, "This him, give or take 20 years?"

The lady before him barked a laughed, though not out of mirth. "That's him, is it? I mean, he's two decades younger, but I'd recognize those eyes anywhere. Eyes, nose...things you can't change about a person. But, yeah. I'd say that's him. He do it, you think? Take the little one?"

"I don't know," Jim replied solemly, but I certainly hope we can find him to ask him."

* * *

Morse sat as comfortably as he could in the passenger seat of the patrol unit they'd been assigned, head perched in his hand as he stared wordlessly out of the window in thought. His back was still out of sorts from the previous Saturday, drawn tight with healing stitches and a dull ache that was exacerbated by skipping his most recent dose of pain medication. If Gage was present, he wanted to be as clear-headed as possible. There was no alternative. 

That reflected in his window was Morse's own only-slightly battered face, and on occasion, Peter's concerned one. 

Though Jakes chose to keep silent on the matter, the younger detective knew he didn't think him fit enough to accompany him in the field, not yet. The fourth time he glanced over was when Endeavour spoke up.

"Look, Jakes, I know you'd rather Strange or Thursday been assigned to this instead of me, but--" 

" _What?!_ Morse...no, no I don't, alright?" Peter replied in exasperation, shaking his head sadly. "I'm just... _worried_ , I guess--"

"Worried? About what, exactly?" Morse questioned with a furrowed brow, but the blooming pink on the apples of Jakes' cheeks revealed his answer.

"Christ, Morse, don't make me say it--"

Morse's eyebrows rose exponentially in shock, mouth agape with a sudden realization. "You don't mean to say you're worried about _me_ \--?"

The glaring side-eye levelled in his direction was Peter's only response.

Endeavour's mouth slowly closed, though a small, surprised part to his lips was still present, however. "I...thank you. That's, ah, unexpectedly touch--"

Any further words were interrupted by a voice incoming over the unit's radio, and Jakes' relief was palpable as he snatched up the receiver.

Morse would let it go. Just this once.

* * *

"This is DS Jakes, go ahead."

Jim Strange's voice relayed back to the pair, and Peter hoped it was to inform them of positive news. " _Jakes, it's Strange. Got some new information I think you're going to want to hear_."

Peter shot a look towards his colleague, who had straightened and leaned forward with all due seriousness. "What's the word, Strange?" he asked.

" _I talked to a flower vendor who remembers the Brewers, Gage, too. I've brought her in for further confirmation, but she positively identified Gage as the person taking at least some of the photos of Aidan_."

Jakes smiled grimly. "That's great news, Jim. If he's home, we'll bring him in. We're only about ten minutes out, now."

" _That's not all,_ " Strange continued. " _Thursday spoke to the organizer of the camera club that Edward Siddall had been a member of a few years back. He had apparently brought Gage along with him on occasion, but was asked that Philip never return._ " 

Morse swallowed uncomfortably. "Why not?"

" _Because all of his photo 'compositions' were candid pictures of blonde-haired boys, between the ages of three to six. A few she recognized as being Aidan, but we've no idea if the rest are of Charlie, or someone as of yet identified. She's coming over this afternoon with the pieces she kept. Thought they might 'be of use' one day. We're going to cross-reference them to any missing children's reports over the last fifteen years_." 

There was a hesitant pause, before coming back with, " _If he truly is responsible for the abductions, there could be countless more we don't even know about. Tread lightly._ "

Jakes stared ahead for a long moment after that, really considering the possibility that the man they were after might in fact be a multiple abductor, perhaps worse. Morse had grown silent, attention on his outside surroundings as he no doubt considered the same.

"We'll keep that in mind. Thanks, Jim," Peter responded gravely, placing the suddenly heavy radio back into its slot. 

They rode the rest of the distance in thoughtful silence.

* * * 

Not ten minutes later did the pair of detective sergeants arrive at their turn-off, a fair distance from Oxford proper. They were deep into the surrounding countryside of Oxfordshire, far from the historic city's gleaming spires or bustling collegiate scene. Here, in the fields and forests, there was only a thin layer of frost and freshly fallen snow blanketing the serene landscape. What houses had remained visible were few and far between, and as he piloted the vehicle onto a narrow, snow-dusted pathway it was evident that there wasn't to be any such residence anytime soon.

A wariness crept upon Peter unlike any feeling he'd ever experienced previously.

"How far did this aunt say to go?" he asked of Morse, doubt colouring his usual assuredness.

His passenger re-read the notepad in hand. "Nearly a mile. She said it's hidden, but there."

As he spoke, Jakes relaxed a bit as the road began to widen considerably, presenting itself more as a utilized thoroughfare with well-marked tire treads. Though they were visible, it was clear that none had traveled this way in a few days, or so. More confident about their decision, Peter put more pressure on the pedal. If Gage heard them approaching, so be it.

"We should consider how we want to approach this," Morse offered, and it wasn't a terrible idea, in all honesty. "If we mention Michael or Aidan first-off, it might spook him."

Peter nodded in agreement. "You're right. If you've any good lead-ins, I'm all--"

Suddenly, in the middle of the bloody road, a man appeared who was not there a moment ago, and Jakes gasped in surprise as he jerked the wheel hard to the right. The inexplicable man donned a typical workman's jacket, stood nearly as tall as his own person did, and was marred by a horrific facial deformity. 

Endeavour cried out in shock, and lunged towards Jakes as he fought to take control of the swerving patrol unit. 

"Jakes, NO! He's not real--!"

Whatever happened thereafter would be a mystery to Peter as they slammed headlong into the thick trunk of a nearby tree, and darkness descended.

A glance at the rearview mirror, were he capable of doing so, would have proved that no one was there.


	19. The Sad Intangible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse finally makes Philip Gage's acquaintance. 
> 
> It goes about as well as planned.
> 
> Heed the warnings, y'all.

_The lawn is pressed  
by unseen feet,  
and ghosts return  
gently at twilight,  
gently go at dawn,  
the sad intangible who  
grieve and yearn_ \-- To Walter de la Mare, T.S. Eliot

Dazed by the suddenness of the patrol car slamming into a large, immovable object, the first sensation Endeavour became aware of pointedly was the throbbing ache in his left shoulder where it must have struck the window upon impact, after Jakes had swerved to avoid--

_Brewer._

Wait.

_Jakes--_

Immediately, Morse came to the startling realization that his colleague proved definitely worse for the wear. Blood coursed freely down Jakes' angular features, stemming from a gash high on his forehead where he'd struck the steering wheel upon impact. His head lolled in unconsciousness towards Morse, and the panicked detective fumbled with his seatbelt clasp as he attempted to rouse Peter.

" _Jakes!_ Peter, can you hear me? Wake up, _please!_ " he called frantically, jostling him gently with his right hand.

The dark-haired man remained unconscious, though he was breathing steadily, and his heart beat strongly within his chest. Breathing a shaky sigh of relief, Morse closed his eyes momentarily to collect the thoughts that fired erratically like so many chrome pinballs within the confines of his head. Snapping to attention, he at once snatched up in the radio receiver, and called out repeatedly until someone finally answered. 

"This is DS Morse, please respond, there's been an accident. DS Morse calling in to request medical assistance for DS Peter Jakes--"

" _Morse? This is Mr. Bright. What's happened? What is your location?"_

Endeavour relayed the basics of the accident, as well as Peter's condition, though he left out Brewer's involvement. "I think he'll wake soon enough, but I don't know if he's been injured anywhere else. We weren't traveling terribly fast, but we still hit a tree pretty hard when he swerved to avoid, er, a dog."

A bout of static crackled over the line, obscuring the beginning of Mr. Bright's next words. " _\--your location, Morse?"_

Though Morse called out their address several times, nothing came back over the radio, save for a series of unintelligible words. _Could the antenna have been damaged in the crash?_ It was vaguely reminiscent of what had occurred when Brewer had spoke to him over the phone, but not entirely the same...

Morse's repeated attempts met with the same issues with electronic feedback, until finally he huffed out a breath of frustration, sinking back in his seat gingerly.

There, outside of his window, stood a small blonde boy, less than ten metres away.

Morse froze.

The child then took off running at a rapid pace, towards what he had assumed to be the Gage residence. Nerves rattled, he tried once more to give their location over the receiver. Naught but static responded.

He then turned towards Peter, torn between staying with his injured friend and following what could very well be Gage's next victim.

"Jakes, if you can hear me, I have to go. Please...I'm so sorry... "

And with that Morse threw the radio down and hoisted himself out of the car, and set off after the child.

* * *

"Mr. Bright? What's happened?" Thursday asked his superior, finding the older man leaning over the dispatch system aside its usual operator. His eyes were wide with worry, and it was a moment or two before he addressed Fred.

"It's Morse. He called in to report that he and Jakes have been in a fairly serious car accident, by the sounds of it."

Fred felt his heart sink to his stomach. "Where are they, then?"

Mr. Bright tilted his head up, shaking his head slowly. "I have no idea."

* * *

Morse stumbled along the wooded periphery of the dirt road as best he could, moving swiftly despite the audible sound of grinding bone in his left shoulder. Panting from exertion and pain, he slowed as he neared a farmhouse, and a most curious sight came into view.

On the edge of the property, positioned in front of the remnants of a small entrance garden, stood the small boy, no more years old than there were fingers on a hand. He wore a striped blue and red shirt, atop red corduroy pants, though without a heavy coat, despite the chill. The little child was also frightfully pale, and though he stared unnervingly at Morse for some time, the detective realized he couldn't quite focus on his eyes. In fact, his features seemed blurred at the edges, as one one imagine a person to appear in the recollection of a memory.

The tow-headed child, to his burgeoning horror, was also slightly transparent, for Morse could see the winter-decayed flowers from the garden through his body. It was at that very moment the detective knew he wasn't looking at a lost little boy who'd wandered away from a nearby house down the road.

Endeavour was looking at a murdered child. 

_Little Aidan Brewer._

A wave of intense sorrow nearly overtook his senses, and he pitched forward to grab onto a nearby tree branch, a small gasp of horror inhaled through parted lips.

They stared at one another for only a few moments more, when Aidan turned away and began to move towards a dilapidated outbuilding. Morse lost sight of him shortly thereafter. Pulling a deep, composing breath into his lungs, he withdrew his service pistol from his holster, and steadied himself.

With one last look back towards the direction of where Jakes sat unconscious in the wrecked vehicle, he closed his eyes and hoped that reinforcements came quickly.

Pushing off the tree, he stumbled on. 

* * *

Jakes awoke to the repetition of crackling static filling his pounding skull like so many swarms of bees. 

Not bees, the radio...

At once he remembered the car wreck, swerving to avoid a man with a disfigured face standing in the middle of the road. Morse had screamed something aloud just prior to their making contact with a tree, but he hadn't the foggiest idea what.

Warily cracking his eyes open, Peter cautiously turned towards the passenger seat to check on his colleague, only Morse wasn't there. He then fumbled for the radio, if nothing else to stop the awful crackling, though in reality it was the dispatch officer attempting to get ahold of him.

"This is DS Jakes," he croaked. "I'm here, I'm okay."

" _Jakes?_ " he heard Mr. Bright respond on the receiver. " _Oh, thank heavens! You had us worried._ "

Peter looked into the rearview mirror, assessing the damage to his head. He had a deep cut at his hairline that bled profusely, but he could move his extremities without incident, at least. "I think I'll live, sir. Just cracked my noggin. Nothing permanent."

He clearly heard the relief in Bright's tone. " _Good to hear, Jakes. Good to hear. Morse informed us of your predicament, but we're unsure of your exact location._ "

Peter's breath hitched in his throat, eyes circling wide as his body tensed with sudden alertness. "Morse called you? How long ago was this?"

 _"Nearly fifteen minutes past. We've been trying to get a hold of you since then. Why?_ " Bright asked with concern. " _Is he not there?_ "

_He'd been out for fifteen minutes?!_

Kicking open the slightly stuck car door, Jakes stood up hesitantly, and looked around the perimeter of the vehicle in alarm. He called out several times, but the only sound to be heard was the hissing of the streaming radiator under the dented hood. Peter reached back into the car for the radio receiver, swallowing down an intense feeling of dread.

"No, Mr. Bright... he isn't."

* * *

As Endeavour neared the farmhouse, he heard movement within, and approved with due caution. He then lowered his service piece, keeping it close, but not entirely visible. "Excuse me, hello? Is there anybody home? I've just been in a car accident, and--"

" _Stay where you are._ " The voice was firm, commanding, and Morse strayed no further.

There, off to the side of the farmhouse's entrance, near the opening of the barn, could Morse finally view Gage's person as he appeared into view. It was odd finally seeing him in reality, and not just through dated photos. He stood perhaps a head taller than himself, and appeared to be a fit man in his mid-twenties, the fair blonde hair of his youth having darkened with age. Philip's hardened gaze bore down upon him, and for the first time since that fateful day, Morse felt more afraid of the living than the dead.

Morse held up a placating hand with due caution as he spoke. "Of course. I've wrecked my car, and I was just wondering if I might use your phone, to call for a ride home. I tried to ask the young child that was heading in this direction, but--"

Philip stared at him incredulously, and Morse waited patiently for his desired reaction. "You're a damned, _bloody liar,_ " Gage spat viciously, charging several steps forward. Morse tightened his hold on the weapon, but otherwise remained calm, at least in appearance.

"Sir, please, I just need to call for assistance," Morse explained with forced exasperation. "I don't know what I've said to upset you--"

"What did he say, this boy? What'd he look like?" Philip demanded.

"Blonde-haired, about four years of age, but...I never said it was a _he_ ," Morse replied as his heart hammered within his chest.

If Gage was rattled, he certainly hid it well, moving ever so slightly to align himself with the entrance of the barn. "Lucky guess. Doesn't ring a bell, sorry, mate."

Morse held his jaw firm, keeping his distance, still. "Are you certain he doesn't live here? Said his name was Charlie, I think--"

" _Get out--_ "

"--or, maybe it was Aidan--"

Philip became suddenly, violently unhinged, running his hands through his scalp as he began to retreat towards the barn. " _I said get out--!_ "

"--of course, it could have been Michael, now that I think about it--"

" _IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!_ " Philip roared in anguish. "I didn't mean to push him so hard! The others..."

Morse took several, small steps forward while Gage was distracted, beginning to pace to and from. "The others _what_ , Philip? What others?"

Gage shook his head with increased agitation. "They were never going to be _him_."

"So you, what, _killed them_? Is that what happened, Philip? They didn't want to be Michael, didn't want to be with _you_ , pretending to be somebody they weren't, so you killed them?" 

"Just who the _fuck are you?!_ " Philip yelled, pivoting around to face the detective with clenched fists. "How do you know my name? You just--you _get off my property_ \--"

Morse forged on, bringing the gun fully into open view. "Philip Gage, I'm Detective Sergeant Morse with the Thames Valley Police, and I'm arresting you as a suspect in the abductions of both Charlie Siddall and Aidan--"

Suddenly, Gage's eyes went wide, looking out at something just over Morse's shoulder. " _Charlie!_ Get back in the house!"

Morse spun around in surprise, and as he turned, failed to see the ruse for what it was until it was too late. With no one in sight, Gage had taken the opportunity to dart into the barn, leaving Endeavour to try and find him amidst the machinery and hay bales.

Cursing himself for his stupidity, the trepidatious detective approached the barn interior warily, breathing measuredly to belay the panic that threatened to overwhelm him completely. Gun cocked and at the ready, he knew the element of surprise was no longer in his favor. The whole encounter had quickly gone pear-shaped in a brief matter of time, and Morse felt the situation actively spinning out of his control.

"Philip, listen to me, please. We can get you the help you need. You're not well--"

Something crashed towards the back of the barn, and Endeavour raised his weapon steadily, on alert.

He was suddenly tackled from the side, a loud " _UNFH!_ " expelling the air from his lungs as he landed forcefully onto his chest, the gun skittering across the bare ground to land well out of arm's reach. Gage laid heavily atop him, thrusting a sharp knee deeply into his back to pin him effectively, and grabbed a fistful of hair as he slammed his face down twice into the dirt.

"Why couldn't you have just _let me be?!_ "

Morse could neither breathe nor fight back, twisting and bucking to the best of his ability in an effort to free himself from the crushing pressure upon his lungs while uttering small, choked sounds of desperation. The futile efforts quickly exhausted him, and felt his body growing slack from the lack of air. He suddenly felt Gage press off of him, and only then was he able to turn his head slightly so that he could take in a gasping breath, the air heavily laden with dust particles as it was. 

As Gage busied himself with an unseen task behind him, Morse simply stared ahead at nothing in particular from his vantage point on the ground as he caught his breath, concentrating on willing his body to rise and fight. He then noticed a slightly blurred shape walking towards him, small in stature. From where he lay, Endeavour could only for certain see the red corduroy pants and the scuffed, white trainers, but he knew little Aidan's apparition stood before him. Once more, it saddened him in an way he found indescribable, and felt the sting of emotion as his eyes welled.

Next to Aidan's tiny shoes came to rest a pair of work boots, larger, not two feet from where Endeavour lay. They could only belong to the elder Brewer, and Morse swallowed a small whine of fear.

Had he been truly listening, he would have heard Gage fumbling around behind him no more. There was an unnaturally tense moment of absolute silence before a great _whoosh_ cleaved the air, and the flat edge of a metal crowbar connected soundly with Morse's left shoulder blade. 

Endeavour heard the loud _crack_ emanate from his already damaged shoulder before he felt it, and then he scrabbled with cold, numb fingertips at the dirt as he shrieked in agony.

" _How'd you know it was me?!_ " Gage screamed. " _HOW?!_ "

Attempting to curl into himself on the floor, Morse wept aloud as both David and Aidan stood near, unable or unwilling to help. " _I'm sorry!_ " he cried out to the pair. " _Please, I'm sorry--!_ "

Gage swung the weapon again, and this time it collided solidly with the left side of his torso, leaving several ribs fractured, no doubt, and Morse unleashed a keening wail.

"You're sorry, alright. How'd you _fucking find me_ , copper? Hmm? _How?_ "

Morse sobbed into the dirt, Gage's questions going unanswered. 

_Why bother, when he was going to kill him, anyway?_

"Is this...how you killed them? Did you _beat_ them--?" Morse asked in anger.

Gage then reared his leg back and kicked him with unnecessary cruelty, boot digging deeply into Morse's cracked ribs as the detective was flipped over onto his back. Endeavour moaned weakly as the cold, sharp end of the crowbar came to rest just underneath his jaw. 

"No. They went peacefully, unlike how you're about to meet your end. Now, you've got one, last _fucking chance_ , copper," Gage spat, pressing the jagged metal against Morse's windpipe. "Who told you it was me?"

His answer mere rasps of air, Morse told him the truth. "Your... _photos_ did."

Gage stood silent for several moments, his steely gaze pinning Morse down like he was nothing more than a specimen in a collection. In one swift movement, he removed the crowbar from the detective's neck, and Morse screwed his eyes shut in anticipation as it swung down with brutal force upon his left knee, and a shrill, piercing scream rent the air. 

The overwhelming pain then engulfed him whole as a moth in a flame, and the detective fainted where he lay.

* * *

Peter had been not 20 yards away when a blood-curdling scream nearly bowled him over with its intensity. He ducked behind a neighboring shed, crouched low.

_Morse._

_That had been Morse._

The detective could hear the suspect, Gage presumably, raising his voice and cursing in anger, before another piercing wail chilled the blood in Peter's veins, paired with the unmistakable sound of metal crunching on bone. Heart hammering within his chest, he hesitantly peered around the edge of the wooden-framed building, and could clearly see the horrific scene unfolding. Gage held a _crowbar_ in his hand, and Peter nearly became ill.

_Christ..._

There were times during his career that he had clashed with superior officers and colleagues alike, and though he never wished him any ill will, Jakes often found himself butting heads with Morse the most. Though he had achieved a working relationship akin to friendship with his fellow detective sergeant during his time with the old Cowley crew, Peter still sometimes envisioned throttling the man on occasion, at least in his mind's eye. 

But, as Peter listened to Endeavour's terrified sobbing and gasping onto the cold, dirt-packed floor of a barn as he was viciously attacked, he chastised himself for ever entertaining such thoughts.

_Gage would most certainly kill him._

Just on the edge of his periphery could Peter detect a slight movement, coming from his left. Whipping his head around, gun trained on the motion, did he see a little boy crossing his line of sight, heading towards the open barn door.

" _Oh, God,_ " he whispered aloud in horror, immediately tipping the gun barrel towards the snow-covered ground. _Did Gage have another would-be victim?_ Peter watched as the small child skirted around the barn, and then he saw it: another entry, towards the back, a portal without a door present.

Peter ran around the back of the structure, panicked breaths appearing as small puffs in the chilled air, and then moved quickly from one paint-chipped building to the next, heading swiftly towards the back entryway. He pressed himself against the side of the last standing framework, weapon at the ready, when he heard it: another jagged, heart-pounding wail of absolute agony.

Then, silence.

Peter stood motionless, breathing through his nose, as he listened further. The soft crunching of boots onto the remnants of snow faded as Gage, presumably, headed out of the barn, and it was then that Peter made his move. 

Moving quickly through the rear door, the child nowhere in sight, was he able to approach his fallen colleague.  
Morse lay on the ground with his head tipped back, rivulets of tears having cut through the layers of blood and dirt staining his abraded face, lined with pain even in unconsciousness. Peter had no choice but to try and wake him, and quietly.

He pressed a firm hand over Endeavour's lips, shaking what appeared to be an uninjured shoulder gently. 

Nothing.

Closing his eyes with a brief curse, Peter brought down a knuckle into Morse's sternum, and began to rub vigorously. He would apologize later.

Morse jerked awake as though he had been electrocuted, eyes snapping open instantaneously. He immediately began to fight the hand over his mouth, then freezing altogether with a whimpered moan as his injuries were exacerbated.

"Morse! Calm down, mate! It's me, it's Jakes!" 

Recognition widened his colleague's blue eyes, dulled as they were with a haze of pain. They grew rounder yet as his focus shifted towards something beyond Peter's shoulder, and Morse's muffled voice, laced with panic, rasped out, " _Peter, behind_ \--" 

Even though Jakes knew what was going to happen, he was too slow to stop it from occurring. The dark-haired detective spun around just as Gage's crowbar swung down to land with a resounding _crack_ upon his own right arm, and he screamed as the bone snapped in two. In the jolting shock of it all did Peter drop his weapon, the service piece landing atop the soft earth with a bloom of rising dirt. 

His own eyes grew wide with horror as Gage raised the metal bar again with a growl, but a soft grunt followed by the cracking report of a pistol felled the taller man with a bullet to his left knee, and the resulting sound reminded Peter of an injured hog. 

Morse's core strength failed him as he levelled Peter's gun at Gage, and collapsed backwards once more as his broken ribs dug into his sides. Jakes watched as Gage landed in a similar fashion onto his own back. The irony was not lost on him as he surveyed the bloodied mess made of Endeavour's own left kneecap.

Gage swore in agony, propping himself up as he scooted back using his elbows and good leg, until he reached the edge of a worktable. A maniacal grin spread across his tanned face as leveraged himself into a one-legged stance, leaning heavily on the wood table as he spat curses all the while.

" _Bloody coppers...taking you...with me..._ "

As he reached for something across the table, Peter grabbed the gun from Morse's failing grasp, but found himself unable to fire as Gage upended a tin, red container of petrol over his head, and then proceeded to douse the surrounding area with the remainder of the flammable liquid. He realized in horror that the disturbed man's other hand held a lighter, and Peter could only wrench Morse up from the ground, despite his agonized cries, as the lit flame was set upon the fuel.

"We've got to go, Morse, _right now_. I'm sorry," he explained in his terror, realizing that Morse couldn't quite see what was happening given his vantage point. He needn't have, however, to know what was about to happen. "Is that... _petrol_? What... _what is he doing?_ " Endeavour asked in panicked disbelief, as the flame met the fumes, struggling to grab hold of Jakes as he was partially lifted into a seated position. Peter turned as the fueled fire soon encircled Gage, his odd chuckling becoming harsh with the rising smoke. Morse's irises and russet curls reflected the flames behind him, and Peter found himself gently grabbing hold of his friend's bloodied face, turning it towards him so that their eyes locked. 

"Keep your eyes on me, yeah, mate? Just...don't look behind me, whatever happens. Alright?"

Swallowing hard with the realization of just what Peter was telling him, Morse nodded emphatically as his muddled thoughts processed the events of the next few minutes. With a final heave was Morse able to stand well enough on his right leg, grasping Peter's waist with his right arm so as not to further injure the taller man's broken arm. They made their way through the side entrance in a twisted parody of a three-legged race, grasping onto each other for dear life as the fire took hold of the wood surrounding Gage, and then the man himself.

Peter strengthened his hold on the other man as Philip's immolation commenced, Morse having stumbled in shock upon hearing the dying, horrific wails of the child murderer as he set ablaze. "Eyes on me, remember?" Jakes said firmly, and with a shaky nod, Morse pushed forward once again.

It was the absolute least that Philip Gage deserved.

* * *

They hobbled together until they'd reached the edge of the property, the threat of injury from the burning barn no longer a concern. Upon stopping jarringly, Peter looked once more over his shoulder as he held onto Morse, and watched the structure as it collapsed, flames peaking high into the sky. He turned back to look at Endeavour, his gaze trained on something far in the distance. Near the edge of the treeline stood the little boy he'd seen previously, his hand being held by the man with the disfigured face. Next to them stood another child, so similar in appearance they could have been brothers, if but a year or two apart. Peter opened his mouth to call to them, but was distracted by a quiet whimper somewhere in the back of Morse's throat. His eyes were blown wide and glittering with unshed tears, jaw clenched and quivering. Peter looked towards the pair again, sudden comprehension dawning with horror.

"Is that..." Peter forced himself to ask, mouth suddenly dry. "Morse, is that... _them?_ "

Morse only swallowed thickly, unable to speak, and Jakes inadvertently received his answer. He glanced back at them, and together they turned away, walking across the remainder of the open field. Endeavour issued a weak moan, and before Peter could properly react, the other man's functioning knee buckled and he careened towards the ground like a sack of rocks. Jakes grabbed ahold of him the best he could with his one, good arm, sinking to his knees beside him so that Morse lay half-slumped on the ground, partially propped up against him.

When Jakes looked up, the trio were nowhere to be found.

He stared at the empty space for some minutes more, until he became aware of a cacophony of sirens approaching in the distance. Morse remained conscious at least, as Peter could feel the body pressed against his in support shaking with sobs of relief, pain, and the fading remnants of a seemingly ceaseless terror. He encouragingly rubbed a comforting hand along Morse's upper arm, careful of his injured shoulder. 

"It's all over, mate," he announced quietly. "It's finally over. We did it."

Morse nodded minutely with a soft exhale of breath, his next words barely heard over the loud crunching of gravel and snow beneath the tyres of the rapidly approaching vehicles.

" _Thank you_." 

Peter watched as the black Jag, the first car in the procession, rolled to a screeching halt beside them, the doors being flung wide as both Strange and Thursday exited in haste, each horrified at the bloodied state of the other two detectives. Peter could only imagine that they must look quite the sight, leaning against each other, complete wrecks that they were. Though grateful for the other's arrival, he found himself drawn once more to cast a fleeting glance across the empty field, where the three victims had just been seen, and for the last time.

To his surprise, Peter realized there were tears wetting his face, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've never seen a 'sternum rub' in action, let me tell you, it will all but wake the dead.
> 
> One chapter left!! O: What Do Now?!


	20. Nowhere Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Healing Process Begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End is Near, The End is--
> 
> Oh, it's Here!
> 
> ::Sad Face Intensifies::
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me until the end of this wild ride, I appreciate each and every one of you for reading, bookmarking, subscribing, and most of all, your kind words and kudos. The ending to this couldn't have been timed better, as I've just begun a new job as an archeologist. A tele-working parkeologist to be exact, for now at least, so these interesting times will evidently be proceeded by even more weird ones to come!
> 
> Stay safe, y'all, and take care of yourselves out there.

The scene that followed was nothing short of pandemonium.

Reginald Bright nearly leapt from the vehicle in which he rode as passenger, barely waiting to do so as it pulled up behind the black Jag containing both Thursday and Strange. Their horror-stricken faces, no doubt mirroring his own expression, had trouble focusing on the chaotic elements of the vermilion-hued disaster they now encountered.

A blazing orange inferno, not too far off into the distance, reduced the structure that once housed it to crackling, blackened wood and smoking grey ash. The bright red lights of both the ambulance and police units cast their own shadow upon those present, highlighting the perilous nature of the situation across a wide spectrum, so that all bathed in the light couldn't help but feel that they were still subconsciously in danger. And finally, the blood-streaked faces of two of his best and brightest, their clothes and flesh crimson-stained, but thankfully not darkened with soot. It appeared they were able to safely escape the roaring conflagration, and just so.

Jakes was staring off into the middle ground, his dark gaze focused on something only be could see, on his knees as he held his colleague protectively. His right harm hung limply against his side, and Bright needn't have been a medical professional to know that it was most likely fractured, if not outright broken. A long, thin wound across the dark hairline of his forehead was telltale evidence of their earlier car incident, the remnants of the vehicle having been passed en route. At least the cruiser had looked to have fared worse in the wreck than his detectives did.

That wasn't to insinuate that Morse looked any better off, but rather what injuries had been wrought upon his body were wholly man-made, and they made Reginald sick to his core. The bloodied abrasions on his pain-pinched face were ingrained with dirt, as were the spaces under his fingernails, the fine lines of his palms. The skin around his mangled left knee was as ragged as his breathing, showcasing only the darkest colors of the spectrum. 

The faraway look in his wide, glassy blue eyes had Reginald fearful that perhaps he'd gone somewhere he couldn't be retrieved from, but he dashed the thought no sooner than he'd considered it.

No, these injuries weren't received in the seat of a wrecked patrol unit, but rather on the dirt-packed ground, at the hands of one well-versed in violence. Bright looked towards the flames cresting above the treeline, and he hoped that whoever had done this was engulfed within. It was the only just punishment, at that moment.

He came back to the present, aware of Strange helping Jakes to stand properly as he was led towards the ambulance after the lanky young man had outright refused to be carried over by the mobile backboard. Entrusting Thursday with Morse's physical care had been tricky, but the veteran detective had been able to hold his bagman upright without further injury, the extent of which was still in question.

"Gage had a crowbar, before..." Peter began, looking over his shoulder towards the fire, "before he poured a litre of petrol on himself." Without another word did he continue with a horrified Jim Strange at his side towards the ambulance.

On the ground before him, Thursday's deep voice murmured a litany of calming words to his bagman as the younger man lay half-slumped against his guv'nor, the palm of his right hand pressed tightly over his eyes as a fresh wave of tears surfaced unwittingly, head tipped forwards as he shook with sorrow. "He's gone, yeah? It's done, lad. You needn't worry any longer."

Morse choked out a wordless reply as the paramedics ventured over, setting the board on the ground as they eased him flat onto his back, transferring him without complaint. Within moments he was loaded into the back of the waiting ambulance, Bright having agreed to drive the Jag back so that Thursday could ride along. Strange had set Peter into the passenger seat of his own patrol unit, and at once the four bustled off, leaving Reginald to wonder just where to begin.

Without a word to the young constable he had traveled with, who was presently radioing to alert the fire department, Mr. Bright adjusted his spectacles, and began to walk towards the burning barn.

* * *

Jakes had been quietly staring at nothing, considering the stark difference a day made, when he heard somebody approach his the door to his recovery room.

"One thing's for certain. The birds at the pub will no doubt be all over you now, I reckon. Well, more than before, that is."

Jakes looked up from his bed to find Jim Strange positioned in the doorway, and Peter welcomed him in with an invitational nod and a wry grin. 

"Wotcher, mate. What makes you say that?"

"Well, you've got the sling, plus a head bandage, and girls love that sort of thing," Strange explained, motioning a hand in the general direction of Peter's form, propped up as he was. "Injured in the line of duty, and whatnot. How're you feeling?"

Peter gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I'm alive, yeah? More than I can say for Gage." His gaze darkened somewhat as he recollected the murderer's horrific finale. "Just a broken arm, really. They're keeping me an extra day to monitor this concussion I've managed to give myself..."

"Dog, was it?" Jim enquired with a single raised eyebrow. 

"The final report seems to think so."

Strange's voice lowered considerably as he took a seat in the plastic chair perpendicular to the bed, leaning forward conspiratorially. "What happened out there? And don't bullshit me, Peter Jakes, I'm a pretty good detective, you know."

Jakes did crack a small smile at that, before growing more serious than Strange had ever seen him.

"Wasn't a dog, for starters, unless restless, vengeful spiritually ghosts are being kept as pets these days," he recounted as Strange's eyes widened dramatically. "I saw them, Jim," he finished quietly, "David, Aidan, Charlie...they were all there, together, at the end."

"You...you _saw_ them? I mean, what...what'd they look like, exactly?" Strange asked in wonderment, enthralled by Peter's account.

Jakes considered that for a moment. "They looked just like _people_ , well, living ones, but...more transparent, I guess. David was...recognizable, to say the least, when he wasn't appearing out of thin air and scaring the _shit_ out of me."

Strange nodded in understanding. "You were lucky. The both of you, considering." 

"Yeah...hey, have you seen him yet? Morse?" Peter asked of his colleague.

"No, not yet. I'd intended on heading over there next, but the nurse told me he was asleep. I'm certain that's code for _something_ , I just don't know what, exactly," Strange pondered as Jakes shifted on the bed.

"I think it means he's _asleep_ , Strange. I don't think he's rested since Brewer's suicide...well, not properly, anyway."

Jim nodded, and moved to rise from his seated position. A troubling thought that had taken hold the past few days then crossed his mind. "Jakes...have you considered what might have happened if we'd never found Gage? To Morse, I mean? Do you think Brewer would have...well, _killed_ him?"

Peter gulped as he recollected the injuries wrought by the increasingly violent apparition. As much as he hadn't wanted to admit it, he turned to Jim with a tight-lipped expression. "Yes," he answered aloud, "I believe he would have, even though I don't understand how he did it in the first place."

His colleague nodded firmly with a sigh. "Me, too, matey. Me, too...look, I'll stop by tomorrow, yeah? See if you remember any of our conversation."

Snapping out of his reverie, Jakes rolled his eyes with a grin. "I've a mild concussion, not amnesia, mate. But, yeah, I'll be around."

"Get some rest, yeah? Gotta build your strength up so you can hold your own against the swarm of ladies coming your way," Jim explained, flexing his bicep with a grin as walked backwards from the room.

"Go home, Strange!" Peter called, wondering just how soon he might get to do the same.

All he really knew was that the first smoke to grace his lips after he was set free was going to be the best he ever had.

* * * 

Fred Thursday sat patiently in the hard, plastic chair aside his bagman's bed as he awaited the young man's return to consciousness. There remained a part of him that also wanted to ensure that David Brewer wouldn't be returning in the dead darkest of night, or even the brightest part of the day, to harass Morse's prone and beaten form any longer.

And so, he waited.

While he hadn't needed traction, Morse had been positioned in such a way to avoid pressure on his fractured left shoulder blade and adjoining ribs, while also keeping his knee elevated as it healed for six to eight weeks. He'd need the assistance of crutches in due time, and a single one at that until his shoulder healed, and Thursday didn't look forward to the fluttering spark of disappointment in Endeavour's eyes when he eventually told him the news. 

That was to say, if they ever regained their light.

Fred knew he needn't worry, for his beleaguered bagman was far stronger than he looked, but still, the thought persisted, unpleasantly.

And so, he waited, for another half a day before Thursday would see the first tentative fluttering of russet eyelashes against an overly pale, lightly freckled face. When his own cautiously optimistic gaze met with Morse's own, confused and cornflower blue, he gently smiled, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. 

"Welcome back, son."

* * * 

Once Morse was well enough to receive visitors, Thursday was pleasantly surprised to find Tom Butler among the first to arrive, after Dorothea Frazil, of course. The journalist's exuberance brought a genuine smile to Endeavour's lips, and Thursday had stepped out to allow them to speak privately. It was only when she noticed Tom peeking into the doorway that she took her leave, but not before placing a gentle hand on the battered detective's cheek, declaring that he was ' _never allowed to do that again._ ' Morse found himself at a loss for words as his throat constricted, and the nod and watery smile he produced by way of answering was enough of a promise for her. 

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I've another Detective Sergeant to pester," Dorothea declared, nodding at the stranger as she took her leave. And a stranger he was, at least, to Morse.

"Hullo? Come in, please," he called to the older man just outside the door. "I don't think we've met--?"

"Mr. Butler," Thursday introduced good-naturedly, and also in greeting as he returned to shake Tom's hand warmly. "Morse, this is Tom Butler, who Jakes and I spoke to about Charlie." As he watched a fleeting, unidentifiable expression flit across his bagman's features, he continued with, "He's the one that done the research on Gage, to begin with."

Tom Butler nodded firmly. "That I did. Look, I just stopped in to say thank you, for everything. I was afraid no one would ever believe me, and now I wish I'd have spoken sooner. Philip got what he deserved, in my book, and I've told as much to your colleague, as well. I guess...I just needed to know you were both on the mend, is all."

"I don't know what to say, really, except thank you, for your invaluable assistance. Truth be told, I'm not exactly certain _what_ I did, if anything at all--" was Endeavour's reply, and Thursday wasn't sure who silenced him first, himself or Mr. Butler.

"You might feel that way now," Tom's voice prevailed, "but your bravery is going to help an untold many find the peace they've long searched for, lad. Now, rest up, Detective Sergeant Morse, and please, take care of yourself."

Before his bagman could protest any further, Fred ushered Mr. Butler out with a gracious handshake, and closed the door momentarily. He then turned to level a steady eye towards Morse.

"What?" his detective began, as Thursday blew out a sigh.

"You don't believe him, do you?" he asked of Endeavour. His response was a half-shrug and an averted eye.

It was Morse's turn to sigh, holding his ribs tightly as inhaled with caution. "I wasn't...I'm not _brave_ , nor did I think I was particularly helpful, considering the footwork you and Strange, and Jakes --"

"That's enough of that, now," Thursday's voice boomed. "Without your persistence, we'd still have a cold case on our hands. Besides, it was you who discovered why Gage was interested in these boys, to begin with. You are as integral to this team as your colleagues, Morse, and I won't hear otherwise. Are we clear?"

Morse reluctantly acquiesced with a quiet, "Yes, sir."

A nod of affirmation from the guv'nor preceeded a slightly quizzical gaze upon his visage. "Although, now that it's crossed my mind, I have to ask...why didn't you tell Mr. Bright your location, on the radio? For that matter, why did you seek to question Gage alone? He could have killed you, Morse."

Morse sat still for some time, idly chipping at a cracked fingernail before speaking. "I did tell Mr. Bright, or at least I thought I did so. I must've repeated myself three times, but no one ever answered, that I could discern. I was hoping he heard me, but just couldn't respond. And then..." he trailed off, glancing up at Fred before looking away once again, "and then I looked up, out of the window, and there was a small blonde boy just standing there, staring back at me. I'd honestly thought he could have been the next victim. I thought he was _real._ "

Thursday's heart stuttered a beat.

"Sir, remember when I told you that I'd heard Brewer speak to me over the phone that day? And all I could hear was feedback? Well, I'd assumed the radio antennae in the car had been damaged in the crash after Jakes swerved to avoid David _(Thursday's eyes widened at this admission, but silent he remained)_ , but I believe the interference in reception was due to the presence of this child, of....well, who I honestly believe to have been Aidan Brewer, judging by his clothes. It explains how Jakes was able to utilize the receiver to answer Mr. Bright after I'd left, to follow Aidan."

Morse paused, waiting for some declaration of disbelief or another from his superior, but when none came, he then announced, "I hadn't known I was following a ghost until it was too late."

It was at that moment Fred decided he was going to have two tumblers, neat, of the good stuff later that night.

* * *

After visits from Jakes, Strange, Mr. Bright, and Aidan's _mother_ , of all people, it had grown late into the afternoon when Dr. DeBryn was finally able to properly visit, and Morse seemed gladder for it, at least initially. Fred watched as the younger man eyed the pathologist shrewdly, at once detailing the tiredness he had tried to cover-up with a brightly coloured bow tie and freshly pressed shirt. As Thursday rose to give them some space, Max held up a hand and faced the detective inspector.

"Actually, I can't stay long, but there's some news I'd like to share with you both, concerning what was found on the Gage property." It had been discovered just the day prior, through property records and a fair amount of crack detective work by Jim Strange, that the farmhouse and surrounding area had once belonged to an estranged uncle of Philip. He hadn't squatted on the property in recent weeks, as had been previously thought, but rather returned to a place he'd frequented enough as a child.

"Firstly," Max began, "of the bodies recovered, we have positively identified Gage's uncle, Morton Cheswick. And, of course, Philip Gage," he announced. "Through dental records, as it were." 

Thursday noted Morse's tight-lipped expression as the pathologist spoke. "You said 'bodies'...were there more?" 

Max looked between them sadly, finally nodding in confirmation. "Adults, no. As for children...well, there've been at least five--"

" _Five?!_ " Morse choked out, his eyes wide in horror and disbelief.

"That we know about, yes. The archaeological team has been working around the clock underneath the barn floor. The graves were only fully discernable in the aftermath of the fire." DeBryn paused as both detective sergeant and inspector grasped the implication of the recovered bodies.

Philip Gage hasn't abducted and killed just Aidan and Charlie, but at _least_ three others. 

Thursday cleared his throat. "We'll begin to cross-reference potential victims on your say-so, Doctor."

"Yes, though it may be awhile yet..." Max paused, noting that Morse had yet to rejoin their conversation. He sat still, head cocked to the side as his eyes shone with bewilderment. "Well, I'd best head home, while I can. Gentlemen."

Just as he turned to leave, he heard Morse's low voice call out, "Get some rest, Max."

DeBryn turned with a quirked smile, nodding gently as he considered the toll this case had taken on them all, in one way or another. "Yes. Yes, I think I will. Thank you, Morse. It's good to see you awake, my friend." 

_And rest well, he finally would._

* * * 

Thursday had thus far been party to the daily parade of well-wishers who'd passed through Morse's room, and with each visit came the same declarations of gratitude for those families and little lost souls obtaining 'closure.' Morse had smiled woodenly at each of them in turn, especially Mrs. Helen Siddall-Croft, the action never quite reaching his eyes. It was on the third day of conscious convalescence did something _click_ within Fred, and he struggled to find the best way to approach the subject.

Sitting in the plastic chair as Morse struggled to focus on a crossword clue, he looked up from the laughable pulp novel on his lap, casting a serious, practiced eye over his bagman. "Listen, I know you've heard it a dozen times already, Morse, but it really means a lot that you were able to provide these families with the peace they deserved. I hope you aren't letting their words fall on deaf ears, lad."

The intended reaction was immediate, as Morse stiffened, his gaze drifting from the black and white print before him. 

"Hmm," was his non-committal response.

Thursday watched him carefully as he pressed on, affecting non-chalance. "I reckon you'd go through it all again, to make certain those families could rest at night, though, it was no easy task, that."

Morse's jaw clenched, and Fred knew it wasn't from anger, but to keep his composure from slipping further away. "Yes, yes, of _course_ , I would. It's my job, to _help_ , and..." the younger man trailed off, scoffing lightly, his eyes still averted from both his superior and his puzzle. 

Thursday leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped before him as he spoke gently. "Endeavour...you're allowed to say 'no.' You know that, right?"

His bagman all but froze, solid as a statue, before an overall trembling took hold of his form, destroying the illusion that the pale young man before him was an unbreakable figure carved from emotionless marble. "Why would I... _how_ could I say otherwise?" he responded earnestly. "So... _no_ ," he whispered in response to Thursday's question, a shuddering gasp tearing from his lungs, "I don't _get_ that choice."

Morse quickly lowered his face into open palms that pressed tightly against his eyes, as if that could stop the inevitable display of emotion as he struggled to regulate his breathing.

Fred shifted closer to the bed, placing a comforting hand at the base of his bagman's neck, mindful of his injuries. "Hey, now. It's alright, no one would expect you to go through that again--"

Morse brought one hand down to peer at Thursday with a pained expression as he shook his head emphatically, and barked a humourless laugh. "You want to know the truth of it? I didn't do any of this for _David Brewer_ , or for _Aidan's mother_ , or the _Siddalls_. They're _despicable_ as they come, each in their own right, whether from _negligence_ , or _cruelty_ , and _blindness_...none of them _deserve anything_ resembling peace. I'm glad that Tom Butler can finally be at ease, but I didn't do this for _them_. I'm not _brave_ , I did what I had to because I was _terrified_ of David, of _what else_ he might have done to _hurt me_. I was _so fucking scared_ of him, and I _didn't know what else to do_. Had I'd asked the right questions and located Tom Butler _a year ago_ , this would _never have happened!_ I needn't have witnessed two broken men commit suicide in the most _violent_ of ways, and I wouldn't have _thirty-two stitches sewn into my back_ , or...oh, _Christ, I'm so sorry_ \--"

As Fred stood in order to loosely encircle his arms around Morse's torso, drawing him into a gentle hug, a great sob proceeded a wave of anguished tears as he held onto the younger man, voice low as he declared, "You've nothing to be sorry for, lad. Not one thing. I just thought you needed to hear that, was all. That it's alright to feel angry, to _get_ angry. That you shouldn't feel guilty for wishing this had never happened, no matter the outcome. You're only human, son."

As Endeavour sobbed brokenly onto Fred's shoulder, Thursday held him as tightly as he dared.

Though Morse was recovering physically, none had yet considered the emotional damage the past two weeks had taken, and Fred vowed to assist him with that, no matter how long the process. It was the least he could do, and far less than what Endeavour deserved, and so, he held his inconsolable bagman. 

Perhaps now, Morse could properly begin his own healing process.

* * *

Another several days passed by without incident, though the grim realities of the case had made themselves known to all by mid-week, to the tune of three more exhumed skeletal remains, for a total of six. It was becoming a possibility that not all of the bodies would be identified, due to either decay or simply having no record of those missing, as was wont to happen with transient or orphaned children.

No one would have ever looked for them.

Morse had been witness to Peter's reaction to that particular bit of speculation, and though it was relatively non-existent, a series of cigarettes smoked more quickly than usual, gripped so tightly he nearly crushed them in half, it was still there, nonetheless.

Though Jakes had been released from Hospital shortly thereafter, Morse was still confined for at least another week until his knee repaired itself into a semblance of a joint that could one day be flexed again. He'd been practicing with a crutch, his left arm still encased in a sling like the busted wing of a bird, and it went well enough that he was able to eventually join the others in the Hospital cafeteria for lunch one day. It was far from the experience of the pub that he so desperately wanted to seek out, but weak tea and bland biscuits would have to do for the time being.

Thursday had come around to assist him in his one-crutched journey, and he was grateful for it. A quick look in the mirror before the guv'nor arrived reflected a face that was on the road to recovery. He'd gotten some of his color back, and his left eye now only had but a spot of red on the outskirts of the prevailing white. His bruises had all but faded, and a hefty dose of sleep had livened his appearance, as well. He even smiled warmly, just to try it out. 

It came naturally, and suited his features quite well.

It was refreshing not being woken up or stalked by a malicious spirit hell-bent on revenge, he decided.

Once he and Thursday had arrived in the cafeteria, he was pleased to see both Jakes and Strange already seated at the pair of pressed together tables, with Max arriving concurrently. Though getting situated comfortably was a bit tricky, he managed just fine, while Thursday fetched the table some tea and the like, returning but moments later as a new voice entered the fray. 

"I hope we're not terribly late?" a reedy voice inquired, announcing the arrival of both Mr. Bright, and Ms. Frazil, the latter's smile brightening the room at the opportunity to have been included.

After all present had been seated, Max took his tea in hand and stood, addressing the group. "If I may, I'd like to propose a toast to the CID. 'Cowley strong,' gents, through thick and thin."

"Cowley strong," they mirrored, tea cups held high.

What followed was idle chatter, sometimes with several conversations overlapping one another as the group eased into light conversation. Morse's future social calendar soon filled up rather quickly, with a proposal for dinner at both the Thursdays and the Brights, luncheon with Max, and a couple of rounds on the boys and Dorothea.

Endeavour reflected back to a few weeks prior, to a time when he was assured that he'd been losing his mind. He was fairly certain that Mr. Bright knew more than he let on, but that was a discussion for another day. The others in attendance had believed him, when it mattered most, and for that, he was forever grateful. Taking a moment, he glanced at each of those around him in turn, pleased to be in the presence of such company.

Morse decided there was nowhere else he'd rather be.


End file.
